


Roots

by Frankiesoup



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 52,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankiesoup/pseuds/Frankiesoup
Summary: This is just a series of little 'character sketches' - interactions between Kurt and De Sardet as De Sardet was growing up. I love that there's a lifetime of history between the two of them and thought it would be fun to that explore a little. I've rated it as Teen for now, because so far it's fine. That said, I don't know where I'm going with it, so rating may change.For those not interested in the 'early years' stuff, the *Feels* start happening around Chapter 10.__Chapter 20: This chapter references domestic violence, murder, and parental death. They're not detailed references - a sentence or two.There's also a very vague reference to Kurt's past (those who've played the game know what I'm referring to), but again, it's a fleeting sentence and no worse than in game dialogue.Chapter 27: Reference to blood, deep wounds, and stitches.Chapter 31: Sex, but this can be omitted - it isn't necessary for the story. The sex I've written here is intended to be read as loving (in case this impacts whether or not you'd like to read it) and happens after a horizontal line in the text, so you can skip this and move onto the next chapter should you so desire.
Relationships: Kurt/De Sardet (GreedFall)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

"Recruit Kurt."

"Sir." Adnan Kurt made sure to keep any of the apprehension he felt from his voice as he reported. The captain of the Coin Guard looked him up and down, face inscrutable. After a moment he nodded, having seemingly found what he was looking for.

"Do you know why I called for you today, recruit?"

"I don't, sir."

The captain cocked an eyebrow, then shook his head, "No matter. You'll find out soon enough. Let's go."

The captain led the way from the barracks into the street. Tall and quick, Kurt was used to his strides far outstripping those of his fellow recruits, however he found himself struggling to match the captain's speed.

"So you're not one for gossip then. Another mark in your favour. Tell me, though - you've heard about the Prince's son on the city walls yesterday?"

"I have, sir." Everyone had.

"Then you've heard it was his young cousin that saved him?"

"I have, sir."

They continued on.

There was a crowd ahead – a group gathered around a merchant from the Bridge Alliance. His shouts promised relief from the malichor for those willing to buy the elixir which lined his cart. Both Kurt and the captain turned away, disgusted at the exploitation of the desperate. But as Kurt turned his head, he locked eyes with a well-dressed woman and forced himself to hold her gaze despite the tell-tale dark veins, threading her marble face. Some part of him felt it was his duty to acknowledge her – to remember that she had lived. The sickness took even the young and rich so quickly and soon there would be nothing left.

The woman looked away first. Carefully, Kurt and the captain skirted around the throng, their direction of travel suddenly relevant…

"Sir, we're heading towards the palace?"

"We are," he stopped then and stepped back so they were out of the way of traffic, "I've heard what the other recruits have been saying – that the prince had his son whipped in punishment, that Princess De Sardet's girl fell and is laying crippled… none of it is true. The truth is…"

The captain paused and drew breath through his teeth. Then his shoulders began to move as he shook his head and Kurt was amazed to see he was laughing.

"The truth is even more amazing, Kurt. I was there, on business. When the alarm was sounded I was the one who fetched them both before the prince. Constantin was sulky – petulant – but ready to succumb. The girl though… she started mouthing off at the prince that it was only a matter of time until something similar happened and that really, it was his own fault for not appointing them a guardian."

Kurt felt his eyebrows rise as his jaw dropped. He'd heard of prison sentences for less. Prince D'Orsay was not a patient man.

"We expected a tirade but… he just laughed, and nodded, and asked me to appoint them a Master-at-Arms."

There was long, expectant pause. When realisation dawned, the captain laughed.

"You look terrified, recruit."

"Surely someone more… experienced… would be better?"

The captain's face softened slightly, "Your training was… regrettable. Other recruits grew bitter as a result. You… just seemed to care more about who came after. You've always shown patience with the younger recruits and you're closer to Constantin's age. He is – shall we say – challenging when it comes to those in authority. We thought that a brother, rather than a mentor might work better."

"Yes sir," said Kurt. There seemed to be little else to say.

* * *

"How old are you?"

Kurt snapped his attention down to the small figure which stood before him. In the royal chamber, behind the heavy, closed door, the Coin Guard captain and the prince were discussing his appointment.

"I'm eighteen."

"You're ten years older than I am."

Kurt found himself irrationally irritated. There was something about the way that the nobility spoke – the entitled air to it – which made his blood boil. It seemed all the more grotesque, coming from a child.

"Is that right?"

The small, blonde boy ignored him and began to pace the space in front of him, "Can you fight?"

"So I'm told."

Kurt watched him as he traced a line of mortar between the floor tiles – an acrobat along a tightrope.

"Is that why you're here? To teach me how to fight?" A cold flush pulsed through Kurt's body. This small, irritating figure was apparently the young heir, Prince Constantin.

"I presume so, Your Excellency." The words stuck on Kurt's teeth as he forced them out.

There was an awkward pause in which the child continued to stare at Kurt and in which Kurt had no idea of what to say. Then, as if from nowhere, a second, smaller figure barrelled down the corridor, knocking the young prince over with a gleefully wicked laugh.

Kurt jumped back, his sword suddenly and automatically in his hand. But he had no idea of how to proceed. The young prince had obviously just been attacked, but the mess of limbs at his feet now was rolling and laughing in delight.

He sheathed his weapon, "Hey!"

Both small figures stopped and looked up at him. The new arrival was rakish – snot smeared across a pudgy, childish face in a way that only those under the age of six are capable of. She looked guileless, if filthy. Then realisation dawned on Kurt that the rough patch of dirt across her cheek was something else – the peculiar birthmark which belonged to the Princess De Sardet's daughter.

"I got him," she said, picking herself up and brushing down her clothes. There was a business-like manner to her words, as though the game had been something more.

"I got distracted," the prince sounded wounded, but not bitter. It endeared him to Kurt slightly more. Behind the heavy, wooden door, Kurt could hear the scraping of chair legs on the marble tiles and the movement of heavy silks and murmured voices.

"… _Why_ did you get him?" Kurt crouched level with the small girl.

"I'm teaching him how to hide," she nodded conspiratorially, "He's got to learn to find the best hiding places in a hurry so next time his father gets angry, he won't get skelped."

"Why would his father get angry?" Kurt asked, finding a smile creeping across his face.

The small girl leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "Because we spilled all the wine for dinner tonight."

The door behind them opened and Kurt stood, quickly, to attention. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of the girl grab her cousin by the hand and pull him down the corridor.

"This is the recruit?" The Prince D'Orsay stood before Kurt and looked him up and down with what could only be described as a mixture of scorn and curiosity.

"Yes, Your Excellency," the captain said with a degree of pride that Kurt had not expected.

"You'll train Constantin first. Then when the girl reaches ten, she'll join you both. She must first complete a tour of Thélème and the Bridge Alliance with her mother as part of her diplomatic training."

Prince D'Orsay said nothing more to the Captain and Kurt. He left with his advisors in a flurry of ermine cloaks and boot clicks. Kurt looked at the captain, slightly forlorn and with a jumble of questions vying for the chance to be asked, fighting to slip from his lips.

But he swallowed them all, and together, he and the captain left the palace.


	2. Chapter 2

Constantin had left the yard in a hurry. There was – he'd confided in Kurt after much teasing – a girl at court who had captured his attention. Kurt didn't mind – not really. It gave him a chance to gather himself before the Princess's daughter arrived.

He had last seen the girl before she'd left on her tour of the bordering nations. That was almost four years ago now, though - she would no longer be the snotty creature he'd encountered in the corridors. Indeed, when he turned around at the sound of footsteps, he was met by a gangly looking child made up entirely of pointy joints.

"Lady De Sardet," he said, trying to smile. He'd seen recruits her age. They were universally clumsy.

"Master," she said with a nod and a formality that seemed obscene coming from such a small, angular frame, "Though etiquette does demand you call me Your Excellency."

He smirked despite himself, at her earnestly trying to correct him.

"Your Excellency? But I don't know if you are excellent, yet," He grinned and handed her one of the practise swords he'd brought along, "Swing it."

She did so – it was slightly too large for her. Kurt held out a hand and he was impressed when she handed it back to him, hilt first. He found a second sword, shorter and lighter. He handed it to her and watched as she swung it. Satisfied by the movement, he nodded.

"How do you know I'm not excellent?" she said, carefully placing her feet in a defensive stance. He raised his eyebrows and picked up the weapon he'd used with Constantin earlier. He gestured her to come at him.

She took a deep breath and looked like she was trying to steady herself against nerves she didn't want him to see. Then she lunged.

Kurt brushed aside her attack easily, and stepped aside as she took a second swing.

"Not bad, for a beginner. But not excellent."

Her cheeks flushed – embarrassment, rage..?

"I've been reading about this for a year. Been practicing on my own…" Sword in hand, she tried again. Her attack was stronger, but – as he had predicted – clumsy.

"And I mean, it. You're not bad – especially for a green blood," he conceded again, "But I'm not calling you excellency until you've earned it."

He expected her to pout, for her to flounce away like Constantin did when he didn't manage something, but she kicked the dirt, gritted her teeth and faced him, "Then teach me. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

He laughed then – a loud, hearty sound that surprised even himself. He knew in that moment that even though Constantin had a four year lead on the girl, that she would surpass him quickly enough.

"I suppose it is. We'll start with your stance, then, Greenblood."

And so they began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know what the age gap is - I think it's supposed to be ten years or so, so I went with 12. I'm (very) loosely basing De Sardet's legate education on the sorts of things Tudor ladies had to do (going to stay in foreign courts and so on), but mostly I'm just making things up.


	3. Chapter 3

The butler stared at Kurt down his thin, handsome nose. Perhaps he wasn't a butler – perhaps he was a steward, and that's where Kurt was going wrong. The hierarchy of servants was confusing at the best of times in the royal house – he had no idea what was going on here, amongst the other Congregation families.

"You're here to escort the Lady De Sardet? I… " the man sighed, "I think you mean that you're here as her chaperone. I sincerely _hope_ you're here as her chaperone," The steward-butler's voice remained mostly level, but his curled-lip sneer was visible.

On the stairs above him, there was a crash of stumbling feet and a hiss of silk skirts.

"Kurt!" De Sardet was pink and slightly too loud – clearly drunk. Kurt didn't know whether to laugh at her or lose his temper, "It's time to go home."

The steward-butler arched an eyebrow and stepped back to allow her to pass. She picked her way down the stairs with an over-elaborate attempt at elegance.

"You have fun, then?" Kurt asked, when they were out of earshot of the pompous butler-steward.

"I did."

"First time drinking wine?"

"It is."

"I can tell," he tried to keep the amusement from his voice.

"No you can't, I'm perfectly…" her face crumpled in on itself and she sighed, "drunk. I'm perfectly drunk, Kurt. I don't like it."

He did laugh now, remembering the first time he'd had too much wine. He'd been around her age too – fourteen, he reckoned.

"Stop it," she pouted.

Kurt offered his arm and helped her down the steps and to the door. The footmen opened the great, oak portal for them and they descended further to the waiting carriage in the courtyard below. There were numerous points where Kurt could feel De Sardet slip on the steps, but he held her steady and posted her through the coach door, before climbing up himself.

"You going to be sick, Greenblood?"

"No," a pause, then, "Probably."

"You've seen your cousin drunk enough times – what made you do it?"

She sniffed, "They offered me wine and I said no, then they teased me until I had some, then it was delicious so I had more and then I was pretending to be my mother. And they thought that was funny, so they gave me more wine."

Kurt shook his head, "If it makes you feel any better, the first time I was drunk I threw up in the Captain's shoes."

She scoffed and slumped against the side of the carriage – eyes closed and mouth open. She looked very much like the snot-nosed child in that instance – cheek chubby where it lay pressed against the velvet lining.

"No you didn't." The protest came as a strange part-yawn, part-sigh.

"I did. You ask any of the other soldiers. I got dared to pinch the duty roster for the next day and put one of the bigger lads - who'd had twice as much as me to drink – on the parade list. But when I got into the office, I couldn't find the roster, threw up in the Captain's shoes and then ran away and hid. I reckon I was about your age…"

"Did you like being my age?" Kurt grinned at the question – it was such an adolescent, drunken thing to ask.

"No, Greenblood, I did not," he looked across at her, to where she remained squashed against the side of the cart. He tried to think back across the 12 years which lay between them and shook his head. She lived a very different life to him, "For a start, I didn't get to wear fancy frocks and go places with an armed guard. I had to look after myself."

She sprung into life at that and started lifting her skirts. Kurt jumped back, too shocked at the sudden movement to take in the nature of it. Her hands returned – almost deftly - from within the layers of silk with a short sword.

"I can look after myself, you see!" The triumph in her voice was all-encompassing and she sat back on the bench, smug and with her clandestine weapon across her knees.

"You are far too drunk to swing that, let along do any damage with it," Kurt scoffed, "But points for enthusiasm. I'll remember that when you're throwing up, tomorrow."

De Sardet fixed him with a stare that belonged firmly to the royal family and banged twice on the roof of the coach to get the driver to stop. He did so, hopping down and rushing to open the door.

"Your Excellency?" He asked, confused (and slightly horrified at the impromptu pause in the journey, Kurt noted).

"Excuse me," she said as she elbowed her way past him, "I need to get out of the carriage so I can fight my bodyguard."

The driver flapped his mouth a few times as the lady tried to find her defensive footing. Kurt, rolling his eyes, also alighted the vehicle.

"Come on, Greenblood – now is not the time nor the place for sparring."

"It is time when I say it is time, Kurt," the strange, uncharacteristic imperiousness she wore from time to time had seeped back into her voice and she made to circle him, sword drawn.

"I'm not fighting you when you're drunk," Kurt repeated.

"I order you to," she stamped her foot in a manner which would not have looked out of place on her cousin, "And if I win, you have to call me 'Your Excellency'."

Kurt sighed and drew his weapon. It would be over in two swings, he was sure. He thought he could probably even find some sort of valuable lesson about fighting whilst intoxicated to drill into her the following day, but a crowd was gathering now and he was reluctant to humiliate the Princess's daughter in front of an audience.

Aside from anything else, if he knocked her over, she'd ruin the dress that her mother had spent a lifetime of his salary on and he did not want to be responsible for that.

"When I win, Greenblood, you're going to tell your mother exactly how this whole dual came about… I'm not having my pay docked for wrecking your pretty frock."

A murmur of laughter hummed through the crowd and Kurt grinned in spite of himself. De Sardet looked down and her cheeks flushed slightly, "You think it's pretty?"

Kurt lunged for her while she was distracted. Muscle memory had her dodge left, but she stumbled as she did. The crowd made the impressed 'ooh' sound that Kurt was thinking.

"Not bad, Greenblood – a few more years of wine-drinking under your belt and you'll be able to parry that."

It was her turn to drive at him – a wild, furious, clumsy chain of attacks which he deflected easily. Her blade was short, aside from anything else – even on a good day she wouldn't have been able to hit him with it.

Still, he was impressed that she'd stashed it – was impressed that she hadn't fallen on her face already. But then, he shouldn't have been – she was easily the best of his students.

The crowd had grown as he dodged her advances and he sighed. Definitely best to end this quickly. It would be easier to deny that the brawling young woman in a party dress was the Princess's daughter if fewer people saw her.

Kurt took two steps forward, inside her reach and used his shoulder to knock her onto her arse. She gave a sharp little grunt – a bit like a hog – and then lay down on her back and laughed a great belly laugh. He rolled his eyes and offered her a hand up. She took it, and – filthy – clambered back into the coach.

The driver stared, dumbfounded.

"Get us home, now." Kurt growled at him. The man nodded, and they continued in silence, back to the palace.

* * *

"What in the hell were you thinking?" The Captain had been thundering on at Kurt for what felt like an hour, but every time Kurt drew a breath to explain himself, the Captain began shouting again.

"There are rumours – a Coin Guard attacked the Lady De Sardet, a Coin Guard had her carriage stopped a beat her before a crowd-" Kurt braced himself. This was the third time he'd heard the allegation, " _A coin guard returned her to the palace with the back of her dress muddied and only a driver's word to vouch she'd not been touched._ "

This time, Kurt lost his temper, "Of course she'd not been touched! She's a child!"

"She's been introduced to the court! As far as they're concerned – and now you! – she's an adult! A noblewoman!"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Aye, about as noble as I am…"

The Captain slammed his hands down onto the table, "I could have you hung for this, stripped of your rank-"

"Then do it, or shut up!"

Kurt turned on his heels and strode from the room. Stalking down the corridor, the other members of the guard scurried out of his way. They'd all heard the stories. None of them wanted to be associated with the man who'd…

He stopped then and sighed. He wasn't really sure _what_ he'd done, beyond taking a drunken child back to her mother. He hadn't got her drunk, he'd only fought her because she'd ordered him to…

And then there she was, at the other end of the corridor. Pale and slightly green, but in her training clothes nevertheless.

"Greenblood," he managed to growl, "You have gotten me into a world of trouble."

She stared at him, mouth slightly open, clearly searching for words and failing. Finally, she slumped her shoulders and looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I…"

"Didn't think?"

Part of him felt that he should close the gap between them so that she wasn't forced to yell down the corridor. Part of him loved that she had to.

"It's not fair," she mumbled, finally.

"Eh?"

She coughed and stood up straight, pushing her shoulders back, "I said it isn't fair. You've been nothing but kind to me these last four years. Anyone who jumped to… _that_ conclusion… Well. It shows how they think of me, not how you do."

Somehow, she managed to pull her shoulders back further and marched past him with that imperiousness she had embodied the previous night. Kurt stepped slowly back along the corridor, towards the Captain's office again.

Inside, he could hear more raised voices, but this time, one of them was De Sardet's, demanding she be allowed to train as usual.

He scoffed, despite himself and then went to change into his training gear. He'd fought with the girl before – he knew that the Captain would relent within the next five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurt's role as a sort of body-guard for the royal children is alluded to in the game, but given that he's employed to teach De Sardet and Constantin to fight for themselves, I felt like I needed to go relatively far back to explore this. 
> 
> I wrote De Sardet at that awkward point in adolescence where everyone's view of you is different - child/adult, social equal/immature - and tried to show how differently one person could be seen, depending on who is doing the looking.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't like her to be late. Constantin, sure – he was late to every session and spent most of the time trying to get out of doing any actual training by asking Kurt about the intricacies of Coin Guard ranks – but not De Sardet. She had never been late before.

When the door into the rear courtyard finally did fly open, she held the slender neck of a bottle of red wine in her hand and was gulping at it like a drowning man gasps for air. Kurt snatched it from her,

"What do you think you're doing?"

She snatched it back, "Drinking."

"I thought you didn't drink."

"I don't."

"Then why are you doing it now?"

She slumped down and threw the bottle across the yard. It smashed against the wall and Kurt was relieved to see most of the contents dribble down the stonework.

"It tastes grim," she muttered, "But I thought it might work."

"You're going to have to tell me the whole story, Greenblood. I can't do anything with the odd word tossed here and there…." He sat next to her, mirroring her position.

She sniffed through her nose and wiped her cheeks on the back of her hand, gesturing her strange birthmark "I know I'm never going to be a beauty like my mother, but I'm rich. They could at least pretend I'm pretty."

Kurt chuckled and she shoved him, actually offended by him for the first time in the six years they'd been training together. He sighed, "You're talking to the wrong person, Greenblood. I can fetch you one of the brothel girls, if you like, but in my world, it's good to have marks on your face. Makes you look tough."

She stared at him for a long moment, incredulous. He let her – there were plenty of scars there to see.

"Where did you get your scars?" she asked. He put his training sword away. In the last six years, she'd never missed one lesson. Just for today, he figured she could rest.

"Any in particular?"

"The one on your eyebrow."

"I fell on the ice and split the skin when I hit the ground. It was all terribly bloody but not that interesting."

"That's much too boring," she tried to smile, "You've got to be lying."

"Nah. If I was lying, I'd tell you I got it fighting in an arena against a wild animal."

"Tell me that, then."

"If you like… I got it fighting in an arena against a wild animal." She shoved him again, but this time it was playful.

"The one on your cheek? And I want a good story…" There was that undercurrent of command again. She carried it much better these days – almost looked the part of a noblewoman, even. And without really understanding why, he felt part of himself close off, as though he'd lost something fundamental to the time he spent with her. She sensed it too and sat up straight.

Everything changed then, and yet nothing did. She had always been his superior – always able to order him around as long as her mother's coin kept coming. Or her uncles. Or – he was beginning to suspect – her own allowance. He was a Coin Guard – a mercenary. He took orders in exchange for gold. But as the older one, and the one with the skills De Sardet wanted, he'd always very much been the master.

That, and he still refused to call her 'Your Excellency'.

He smiled at that, his sense of mischief returning somewhat – still impish, but transparent now, intangible, and…lesser somehow.

"I got this one the night you got drunk and beat me up."

She raised an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, "You did not."

"I did! You swung at me in the darkness like a wild beast – you'd hidden a two-handed sword under your skirts somehow and you came at me with such demonic fury that I almost called out for help from…" he paused for effect, "What's those priests from Thélème called?"

"The inquisition?" a sceptical sigh.

"Aye! Luckily I managed to fight you off, honour still intact. At least, that's what I tell them all at the barracks."

She stood and stretched, looking at him with the sort of disdain that only adolescents could conjure. Kurt found it hilarious.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she said, quietly.

"Eh?"

"The other girls at court… I'm sick of trying to fit in with them. I have all the right dresses made, say all the things I'm supposed to say, but it's… it's never right. They either call me names, or the ones who want to be kind try to tell me how to cover up my mark… all I can hear is how I'm not good enough."

"Constantin calls you his 'fair cousin', doesn't he?"

"Yes… because I get him out of trouble and because my being in the ladies' salon gives him an excuse to come in and drink in the other beauties."

"Like I said, I'm the wrong one to ask. But since I'm the only one here…" Kurt took a deep breath. Today wasn't going at all like he'd expected it to – the angst of youth was absolutely not something he had anticipated on his way to the palace, "You're not ugly, Greenblood. You're clever, and you're funny when you want to be… The problem you have is that you respect your mother and your education too much to fit in with people your own age. And even if those girls could look past that, they couldn't see past the fact that the boy their parents keep telling them to try and marry is calling you his 'fair cousin'. Give up on them."

"How?" she looked ready to cry, "I'm stuck with them because they're part of the court, and I'm part of the court, and I'm going to spend my whole life in that bastard, gilded cage!"

"Join the Nauts, or the brothel girls. Hell, join the Coin Guards – you're as good as half the lieutenants already," he found he meant that last part with something of a shock, "Whatever you need to do. But stop worrying about whether or not you're pretty and draw your sword."

Suddenly, training seemed like a much better idea than talking after all.


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you want to do when you finish being a Coin Guard?"

Kurt laughed between pants, "I'm only 30! And Coin Guards usually die before we get to retire… It's why the pension is so good – no one ever gets it."

De Sardet was bent double too, catching her breath.

The day was warm, and though the courtyard was shaded, there was no place for a breeze to sneak through the heavy stonework and shift the stagnant air. De Sardet stood and pried the armour off her torso, tugging at the calico shirt beneath to unstick it from her body.

"You done already, Greenblood?" Kurt's tone was teasing, but he removed his own plate too.

"You haven't answered my question."

Kurt shrugged, "It's not something I've ever given much thought. Like I said, we mostly die before we stop working. Why'd you ask?"

De Sardet crossed the little yard they'd been using as a training ground since the Captain of the guard had demanded her lessons take place with 'more discretion'. She opened the door and leaned into the building, hanging from the frame. Stretching out her fingers, she managed to tug a heavy silk cord towards her, pull it, and drop it in a fluid movement. No longer clumsy, Kurt noted with pride.

A servant appeared and disappeared, carrying the call for water from the ice house to be brought up.

No longer clumsy, and no longer awkward when ordering staff around.

He noticed suddenly that De Sardet was frowning at him, "What?"

"Eh?"

"You were looking at me."

"You grew up," Kurt confessed, and tried to temper his amusement when she preened a little at the observation. _Not quite, then._

"Is that…good?"

"Oh, probably. But you haven't answered my question. Why ask about my plans for old age?"

She shook her head, "I… I've been offered a job."

Kurt laughed and she rolled her eyes at him, "A Greenblood with a job?"

"Apparently I'm good at being diplomatic. My uncle would like me to train as a legate for the Congregation."

Kurt felt his eyebrows rise – he found himself impressed.

"I can definitely see you being good at that. I thought your uncle already had legates with Thélème and the Bridge Alliance, though - isn't that where you stayed with your mother when you were young?"

"It is, but… " she glanced at the door to make sure that the servant wasn't about to enter before rushing close to him and whispering, "there's an island, Kurt. Each nation has sent a handful of colonisers there. By the time I've trained under our current legate in Thélème, Uncle says there'll be cities and that Constantin and I…"

There was a creak at the door and a servant entered with a tray of water. De Sardet stepped back from Kurt's side and nodded once to dismiss the kitchen girl.

Kurt considered all she'd said as De Sardet, rather soberly crossed to fetch them each some water. The flagon she handed to him was not made of glass, but stoneware – better for keeping the contents cool. Kurt could feel the condensation on the outside of the cup, spiking cold against his fingers. As he swallowed the crisp water, her could track its movement down his gullet and he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"Am I excellent yet?" De Sardet asked, watching him with a smirk.

"No, but the water is," she rolled her eyes and did just as he had done, tipping back her head to better feel every inch of the icy liquid as it trickled down her throat. Her strange birthmark seemed so very prominent as she did.

"Ask me that question again, Greenblood."

"If I'm excellent?"

"No – we all know you're not."

"All of _us_ do, do _we_ Kurt?" She gestured the empty room and he nodded.

"If I ever grow up enough to stop being a Coin Guard, I think I'd like to be an explorer," he said, nodding at her, "Like you're going to be."

"You should come with me," she said, sitting across from him and raising a cup, "To adventure!"

"To adventure," he said, a slight undertone of melancholy leaking into his words.

"Kurt?"

"Hm?"

"Are you alright?"

"I shall miss you, Greenblood. When you go."

"To Thélème," she said with conviction and he noted with a deep fondness that she was trying to do what her cousin did – to fit another's words to her own designs, "Because you just said yourself – you're coming with me to the island."

"As long as the coin keeps coming, I'll follow you anywhere," he said with more certainty than he felt.

She looked him dead in the eye at that and held his gaze. Then slowly, and carefully, she said, "I'll hold you to that, soldier."

A long moment passed, then she picked up her cup, drained the rest of the water, and left without a backwards glance. Watching her go, Kurt realised he had no idea what she meant.


	6. Chapter 6

The letter had come of something of a surprise. Kurt didn't usually get letters. He especially didn't get letters from foreign legate offices.

Cracking the heavy seal was deeply satisfying, as was the way the parchment sprang upwards as he did so – an invitation to peek.

Kurt had been handed the letter first thing that morning, his receipt of it framed by curious faces and far too much interest. Kurt had hurriedly pushed the letter into his satchel with what he hoped was an air of nonchalance – as if getting missives from foreign dignitaries was a perfectly usual part of his day. Then he'd tried to forget about it.

The other lieutenants who shared his room at the barracks were out for the evening, drinking at the tavern. Kurt had made his excuses and slipped away early, the letter having grown increasingly heavy in his pack. Now, as he lay on his bunk to read it, he found he almost didn't want to know what it contained.

He scanned the page and laughed aloud at the signature – 'from her excellency, Lady De Sardet'. 'Excellency' was underlined no fewer than eight times.

It had been a year since she'd gone. She was 19 now, he realised – a full year older than he had been when he took on Constantin's training. He could scarcely believe the time had passed so quickly.

The letter was friendly – familiar. She wrote about the things which made her happy, and the things she missed. She spoke with excitement about the coming voyage and then, towards the end…

Kurt sighed and folded the letter. He hopped down from his bunk and began to pace the room.

She said she'd heard rumours, whispers which had crossed the continent. Her mother hadn't been seen at court, talk of barbers and sawbones and priests attending the Princess's apartments at strange hours of the night… There were murmurs that her mother – her beautiful, kind, loving mother – had caught the sickness.

She wrote that Constantin avoided the topic in his missives, even when she asked him outright. She said that her mother wrote at length about memories, as if trying to 'commit herself to the paper, lest she vanish.'

She ended with, 'Please, Kurt – you're the only one at that palace who ever treated me like an adult. Discover what you can for me. Go to her and say there's an unpaid invoice for my training – she'll likely argue but it'll be long enough for you to see her. Please.'

Kurt had heard the rumours too, but he didn't often have cause for contact with the princess. Without doing as De Sardet suggested, he couldn't offer her any solace.

He continued to pace the room, thoughts spiralling. They began at _anger_ , tumbling down through _jealousy_ at her relationship with her mother, _envy_ of her station, _affront_ that she'd asked him to do it, _disappointment_ in himself for caring enough to agree and _disappointment_ in himself for being disappointed at caring.

A sudden, cool, calm settled on him and he inhaled deeply. He _did_ care about her – she was the closest thing to a family he'd ever known, and he was as close to a father as she was ever likely to get. The second realisation sat uncomfortably, though, as the weight of it dawned on him. Part of him felt an inordinate amount of pride, whilst the other half chastised him for having ideas above his station.

"Alright Greenblood," he said to the letter, holding it up at arms' length so that it was level with his face – De Sardet's height matching his own, "I'll do it. But after that, we're back to mercenary and coin-purse…"

The door opened and a clatter of drunken lieutenants tumbled into the room. One made to snatch the letter from him. Kurt deftly tossed it into the fire where the seal melted and crackled in the flame.

"Letter from his girlfriend, lads!" said one of the newer men – Kurt thought his name was Jack.

"Can't be!" laughed Elsie stumbling in, "I'm right here, eh Kurt?"

Kurt took a deep breath and donned a proverbial mask he knew so well that it fit like a glove – armour shaped like a smile with the voice of a teasing joke.

"Sorry Els, my heart belongs to Jack's mother – he knows that!"

Raucous laughter bubbled up around him and Kurt found himself drunk by proxy. He'd missed this, in the years he was looking out for De Sardet and her cousin. He'd spent his youth being sensible and protective and distant from the men and women of the guard. He'd been getting used to spending more time at the barracks during the last twelve months and for the most part he'd been enjoying it.

Someone produced a bottle from somewhere and Kurt found himself with a glass. He raised it with the others, but said a quiet, fond goodbye to his royal fledglings.


	7. Chapter 7

_Greenblood,_

_I saw your mother._

_I'm sorry. You were right. It's the malichor._

_I know you'll be working hard at your studies, but you might want to start working harder. I spoke to Constantin and your Uncle – I'm Captain of the Guard now, did you hear? – and they're willing to send you and your cousin on the next boat. If you can get back quickly, you should make it in time to see your mother, and maybe find her a cure on the island._

_Sorry the news isn't better._

_Yours,_

_Kurt_


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt had long since given up trying to teach Constantin how to fight like a soldier. They'd come to an unspoken agreement that the prince's son would learn to fence. Initially, Kurt had taken it as a defeat, but he found that now, he looked forward to the sessions. They were light – ethereal and elegant in comparison to what he was usually asked to do.

And he was pleased to see that he'd lost today. That was refreshing too – to be able to perform at a level less than your best with nothing at stake but a little pride. And even then, Kurt was happy to lose some degree of dignity in exchange for the pride her felt in his student.

"You're on good form," he smiled at Constantin, hoping the prince saw the compliment as genuine. Despite his usual eagerness to dissect the session in search of more praise, Constantin neither acknowledged nor basked in the remark. He was distracted, and Kurt soon discovered why.

"My sweet cousin sent a note – she's coming home."

The slight smugness to Constantin's tone was not lost on Kurt and it bothered him. It wasn't so much the smugness in itself – the young prince was often smug – but this seemed to be… _directed_ at Kurt.

"I imagine you'll be glad to have her back," Kurt smiled again, refusing to rise to the bait and ask questions.

He knew what was expected of him – he was meant to perform a merry dance for information. Constantin wanted him to ask what was afoot, to be the master of a secret for at least a short time. Over the years, Kurt had learned that sometimes this tedious practice could be avoided if one simply waited. In these cases, there was a slight… _itch_ to Constantin's words – an eagerness which betrayed that he longed to share his news more than he longed to be the keeper of it.

"She has commissioned some of the Coin Guard," Constantin grinned, "To accompany us to the island."

The easy rhythm of their usual conversation skipped a beat then as Kurt's stomach turned to ice. He recovered quickly though, and said, "I'll see to it she gets the best then."

"She's petitioned the commander…" Constantin smiled, "She plans on taking high ranking soldiers."

The frozen ball in Kurt's stomach began to sink deep into his gut.

_\- As long as the coin keeps coming, I'll follow you anywhere.  
\- I'll hold you to that, soldier._

His face must have given him away as Constantin patted him on the back with uncharacteristic fraternity and enthusiasm, as well as a deep belly laugh. It all felt rather like when the former captain had informed him he was going to tutor the children of the royal house in swordsmanship.

"I believe your orders will have arrived by the time you get back to the barracks, if all has gone to plan. She said you rather fancied your hand at being an explorer…"

Kurt recovered himself as best he could and coughed once, as if by doing so he could rid himself of his shock somehow. Then he chose his words carefully – it was difficult to be candid with the prince. "Aye. I always liked the idea of being an explorer – bit of a hero type."

"You're already a soldier," Constantin said, his brow furrowed, "Is that not… _heroic_ enough?"

"A soldier on his own, sure – last man standing, type thing. But when you're one amongst many, you're a part of something bigger than you are. It's hard to be a hero when everyone else is too…"

Constantin laughed again, "I never had you pegged as one for glory-hunting, Kurt."

It was Kurt's turn to laugh, "That is something I am definitely not. But I like looking after people. I like that feeling of… being something, to someone."

The conversation was taking a rather uncomfortable turn, and Kurt found himself trying to think of a way to change the subject, "Sounds like you'll be getting your sweet cousin back from Thélème just to lose her to the sea again – I'm surprised you're so… pleased."

"That's the best part," Constantin said, his smile so wide it looked to be hurting him, "My father seems so keen to be rid of me that he's making me the governor! I'll be joining you both!"

For the second time in his life, Kurt swallowed down all his questions in relation to a royal posting.

Then despite himself, he smiled. Sharing a boat with Constantin for months on end might be wearing, but at least he could hear all about Thélème and De Sardet's training. For all that had happened in the time between her leaving and now, he found that he'd missed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this one but my aim with this work was just to write things as they came into my head - nothing painstakingly worked on - so I've left it as it is. 
> 
> I might come back to it later.


	9. Chapter 9

Kurt tried to swallow his laugh but couldn’t and it barked out of him.

“Someone’s got her to sit for a portrait?!”

“That’s what I heard,” the servant replied, managing with a far greater degree of success to hide his disbelief at the statement.

Many artists had painted De Sardet over the years. There was something of a gallery in her mother’s apartments which showcased them all. And they were all dreadful. Kurt particularly liked the one where her mother had asked the artist to paint De Sardet’s left side – the one with her birthmark – but in which the artist had simply had his model turn so that said mark was not visible. The result was an image of a thick, twisted neck in an uncomfortable pose – a position which had resulted in De Sardet finding it difficult to turn everything above her waist during training for weeks.

Kurt decided to make his way up to see her. He’d made his peace with her having outgrown him back when he was still a lieutenant, but he had her to thank for his appointment and he was keen to greet her before the voyage. And make sure she’d packed a sword worth swinging.

He made his way across the larger palace courtyard, accompanied by the sound of conspiratorial, excited voices all wondering over Constantin’s whereabouts.

He almost missed her in the end.

“Hey! Greenblood!”

“Kurt!” She sounded surprised, but overwhelmingly pleased to see him. He threw her the sword he’d brought for her.

“And so the day has finally come! My royal fledglings are leaving the nest!” Kurt pretended to bow as they circled one another, muscle memory unrepressed by the years apart. The sparring dance was familiar, automatic.

“Accompanied by their most loyal and tenacious master-of-arms,” she grinned, warm and honest.

“As loyal as your gold,” he corrected, though he found as he said it that it stung him a little.

“Enough with the cold mercenary – I know you like us,” she teased. Then, unexpected, added, “You’re still hiding your men in the shadows of the unsuspecting greats of this world, I see…”

She nodded to the contingent of Coin Guard men who were making ready across the way. It was Kurt’s turn to quip back, “Hey! Our blades are the only thing keeping you dainties alive!”

“Ha!” she smirked, “Kurt, I’m not in need of your protection! I’m no longer a child, you know.”

And for the first time, he believed her. Dressed in a doublet and smart riding breeches, she looked every inch the legate – every inch the noblewoman. He felt something rise in his chest – an ache that tasted too strongly of obsolescence.

But they were still circling, still dancing. And he could still lead.

“Is that so,” both of his hands came to his hilt and she matched his stance, “Then fight with honour!”

Solid ground. Familiar ground.

He had missed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where my ramblings meet the game. 
> 
> I don't plan on doing much with any of the other scripted scenes - if I keep writing this - but this one felt right. I dunno... I might flesh out some of the other conversations later on, depending how I feel.


	10. Chapter 10

The excitement at having left port subsided when they lost sight of land, the reality of their voyage looming on the horizon before them. Constantin, despite his bravado at the port, had quietly slipped away to nurse away the aftermath of the previous night’s celebrations.

Or the coming months of sea sickness, Kurt wasn’t entirely sure.

The Nauts had set about their business like a well-timed piece of clockwork – every cog ticking in perfect sync. Kurt watched them for a time, admiring the familiarity and ease with which they operated the ship, then noticed that De Sardet was missing.

Constantin was already occupying the small, private space that the Congregation party had been allocated in the hold, so Kurt didn’t bother looking for her below deck. Instead, he found her small and hunched between two barrels, pale and quiet, staring into the middle distance.

At first, he mistook it for seasickness, but then he saw the grey pallor of her lips.

Shock.

Kurt crouched beside her and tried to make eye contact. She remained vacant – distant – staring at something far off that no one else could see. Kurt sighed and shifted his weight, crossing his legs in an effort to make himself comfortable.

“Hey,” he coaxed, voice as gentle as he could muster, “Greenblood. You’re alright – you did it.”

She was shaking her head at that, not meeting his gaze.

“Kurt – if it hadn’t been for you…”

“I didn’t fight it!” he objected, “You did that all on your own.”

“You got Constantin away…”

“Which I wouldn’t have been able to do, had that thing got near. Which it didn’t. Because you did your job right.”

There was silence for a moment, then Kurt remembered the flask in his pocket. He drew it out, uncorked it, and offered it to De Sardet who shook her head.

“I know you don’t drink,” he smiled, remembering that one drunken night when he’d knocked her into a ditch, “But this is medicinal. You’ve had a scare…”

She looked at him for a long moment, then took the flask and let at least half of it trickle down her throat. Then she passed it back, shut her eyes, and leaned her head against the side of one of the barrels.

“Did I do well, then, Master-at-arms?”

“You did, my lady.”

“Not _excellency_?” The ghost of a smile played at the corners of her lips and Kurt clapped her knee as he had when she was a child.

“Definitely decent, but you took a few hits so… not excellent.”

She opened her eyes, the phantom grin solidifying into something real and warm, “So you’re saying if I take down one of those things _without_ being hit….”

“I don’t know. I could take down one, I reckon,” he said with mock bravado, “So for excellent you’d have to do at least two without getting so much as a scratch.”

“At least two?”

“Maybe three.”

Silence then, but companionable and familiar. Kurt took a swig from his flask and offered it back to her. Without asking if she could, she downed the rest and sighed – almost contentedly.

“I’m glad you signed up to come along,” she said at last. Kurt cocked an eyebrow – _signed up_. As far as he’d heard, she’d been responsible for his posting.

“I had my orders,” he tried, attempting to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He looked over at her and was surprised to see the her recently grey face was now flushed crimson.

“Oh?” the noise was slightly too high pitch, too loud. Kurt chuckled, and shook his head.

“You can stop pretending – Constantin told me you’d arranged for my posting.”

The red of her cheeks deepened and she grimaced.

“Remind me to do something dreadful to my cousin when he emerges,” she muttered, then, “To tell you the truth, Kurt, I’m terrified. I feel so… young. So _inexperienced_. Too inexperienced to be doing _this_ , in any case. I asked for Sir De Courcillon and yourself to accompany me to… well, to keep me right.”

Kurt felt that pang again – the one he’d thought was obsolescence, but which clearly couldn’t be given he had just been told explicitly that he was needed. He searched De Sardet’s face for a hint of irony but found nothing there, aside from an open, honest gaze.

“I’ll do my best, Greenblood, but I’m hardly an expert in diplomacy.”

It was her turn to clap his knee and smile, “Diplomacy is entirely subjective. And look – you’re already helping! Just seeing that you’re as terrified as I am has cheered me up no end!”

She stood and offered her hand. Kurt took it, and found himself holding it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Their eyes met and she smiled at him, the same pink colour rising in her cheeks. Then she released her fingers, nodded once and pointedly found one of the nauts to talk to while Kurt watched her go.

He was certain that something had just happened between them, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basing the Naut's ship - for the purposes of this and subsequent chapters - on the Spanish Galleon as drawn by Stephen Biesty.   
> For those interested, here's a picture: https://i.imgur.com/hIDxztR.jpg In my head, the Congregation nobles inhabit that bit at the back with a balcony, because possibilities of being windswept and romantic.


	11. Chapter 11

The skin on De Sardet’s face had started to peel. The salt and the sun left it red-raw and rough, like sandpaper. She had gone to put ointment on it once, but the Nauts had stopped her because the fats in her expensive face cream would have helped the sun to fry her face.

“Shed it, like a mask,” Vasco had said, “the skin beneath will be stronger.”

Kurt found that he liked the Naut captain. He found that he liked life at sea. It seemed… wholesome to him. Of course, eating something other than pickled vegetables, fish, and increasingly soft apples would have made it more wholesome, but the camaraderie of the crew and the way they worked in combination was inspiring.

He often caught De Sardet watching them, too – her eyes frequently falling on the captain. And after he’d noticed it, Kurt couldn’t leave the thought alone.

“It’s the tattoos,” De Sardet confessed, after much teasing, “I want to know if they go all the way down…”

“Why would they? No one’s going to see them under their shirts,” Kurt replied, wondering where his indignant tone of voice was coming from, “Well, no one who’s going to understand them, I suppose.”

“I think it’s terribly romantic,” De Sardet went on, ignoring the petulance of his previous comment with skill borne of her legate training, “Imagine getting into bed with someone and finding more stories on their chest…”

It was – much to Kurt’s unexpected relief – Constantin who first discovered how far down the tattoos went. And after she knew, De Sardet seemed less fascinated by the captain.

Kurt didn’t see her go inside once that first week. She trained on deck with him every morning, and then sparred with anyone who cared to try. Kurt watched with pride – it was good for her. She was used to his moves – knew his strengths and weaknesses – but this way, she could learn how to counter an attack he wouldn’t use, or a weapon he didn’t wield.

And when she wasn’t sparring, she was reading – treaties and notes on the native language. And a letter – well-thumbed and black along the folds. She kept that tucked in her jerkin pocket.

There was one day he caught her with it and she fumbled, blushing, to hide it from him. When he’d found a recruit with a love note – or Constantin – he’d been merciless, but there was something about the way she looked at him which made him hold back. Vulnerability, perhaps.

He nodded to her letter, “I’ll mind my own business, don’t worry.”

“Did you leave anyone behind, Kurt?” she asked. It was his turn to blush at the question.

“Not really…”

“Not really?”

He thought of Elsie, briefly, “There was an… arrangement, rather than a romance. We were both lonely.”

It was true, but he’d never articulated it before and found that doing so felt cheap and disloyal. He’d liked Elsie a great deal and she’d been kind. But that’s really all there was amongst the Coin Guards – arrangements. You never knew where you might be posted to next, or who might not come back. It was better not to get attached. Those who did tended not to last long.

De Sardet was silent, as if waiting for him to continue, but he didn’t feel like sharing any more. He nodded to where she’d slipped her note, “That from someone you left in Sérène?”

She shook her head, “No – I left no one in Sérène.”

“In Thélème?”

“Not really…” she grinned as she mirrored his words, “But the legate there thought that it would look good if I was seen to be… _friendly_ with some of the local nobility. Nothing scandalous but… suggestive. She selected two households and I met a young man from each one a few times. One became a dear friend. And the other…” she tapped her chest pocket, “The other was such a colossal prick that I ended up giving him a black eye on the day we left.”

“And you keep a letter from _him_?”

“I do. He wrote to me shortly after I left Thélème and I received the missive just before I sat for that portrait. He told me that I was nothing – that I’d never manage a good political match. He called me all manner of names and wished all sorts of ill upon me,” she was grinning as she spoke, “I nearly threw it in the fire, but then I realised what it was.”

“Oh?” Kurt found himself unable to say any more. The idea of such a hateful thing directed at the smiling woman before him made his words catch in his throat.

“He was terrified of me – terrified that I had something he didn’t. He knew somewhere deep down that he would be forced to marry for political gain – that his whole life would be spent trying to leech favour from his social betters,” She walked to the edge of the boat and leaned against the railing, “My job gives me agency – _Legate_ is a title I’ve earned, not one that I’ve married. It’s not one I need to share with a future partner, nor is it one I need to set aside in favour of a ‘better’ name.”

Kurt watched her. She looked – in that moment – so deeply satisfied and contented that he wanted nothing more than to drink her in.

“The further we travel from the old world, the more I feel the chains of it slipping away. And out here,” she threw her arms wide and gestured the ocean and the sky, “out here there are no demands – no responsibilities. I feel as though I’m finally allowed to just… be.”

He thought of her titles peeling from her, like the pink skin of her face – daughter, niece, lady…

_Shed it - like a mask - the skin beneath will be stronger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though there are reasonably few gender expectations within the game - there are women in high ranking positions within both the Coin Guard, and the Nauts - for example. 
> 
> That being the case, I've tried to write the whole 'arranged marriage' thing as something forced on nobility in general, rather than noble*women* in particular. I hope I've pulled it off.


	12. Chapter 12

“A storm is coming – you’ll need to go below deck.”

De Sardet looked positively horrified, “Captain, surely there’s some way I can help? You’ve seen me fight – you know I’m physically able…”

“Able or not, your sword’ll be no good against the ocean. And I’m not having the death of the Congregation Legate on my hands. Below deck,” Vasco pointed and De Sardet responded with a single, terse nod.

Kurt finished securing the boxes he’d been ordered to tie down and watched her, panicked, scanning the deck. There was something feral about her then – clearly frightened and jumpy. 

“You all right, Greenblood?”

“Kurt!” her voice had that shrill, slightly-too-loud quality to it that he’d come to recognise as the way she showed her discomfort, “Would you… That is to say…”

The fight went out of her then and her shoulders sagged. She mouthed the word _help_ at him. He smiled and crossed to her, theatrically offering his arm, “Shall I escort you below deck, m’lady?”

She nodded, mute, and clung to him as they descended into the belly of the ship.

“I never had you pegged as scared of a bit of thunder, Greenblood,” Kurt teased as they picked their way down the steep steps to the room shared by the Congregation party.

“Not thunder,” her voice was taught – the string on a bow pulled tight, “Drowning, trapped inside a wooden box with no way out.”

The ship lurched down into the pit of a huge wave and crashed against the next peak. Kurt and De Sardet remained suspended for a second above the steps as the boat fell from beneath them, then came surging up to slam against their tail bones as their knees gave way.

Kurt grunted, and looked across the darkness as he clawed himself up.

“Greenblood?” It was more of a bark than a question, his tone one of sharp concern.

“Here,” He snapped his attention in the direction of the voice and could just about make out her figure in the gloom. He reached out for her and saw her lurch for him, her hands trembling and tight when they finally found the cloth of his sleeve.

They clung to one another in the darkness, pale fingers searching ahead for the door as the world around them churned.

De Sardet found the handle first and stumbling, pulled Kurt into the room after her.

A wave of light washed over them from a storm lantern which hung stoically from the roof – a flickering, guttering pendulum of amber against the night.

“Sweet Cousin!” Constantin tried to stand to greet her, but the ship pitched again and both De Sardet and Kurt landed again on their knees, bruises on bruises, as Constantin crashed back onto his bunk.

“On the floor, Con,” Kurt snarled at the Prince’s son, then crawled to the edge of the room, propping his back against the door they’d entered through a moment before. De Sardet scrambled after him and tucked herself into his side.

Even in the warm glow of the lantern, De Sardet’s face was pallid and shone with sweat and tears. She had that same look of vacant shock to her as she had after she’d defeated the creature at the docks – lips grey and eyes hollow.

Close to him as she was, Kurt could feel her trembling.

Instinctively, he pulled her into him, simultaneously surprised by the fact that she was so tall - as tall as him - and at how dense with muscles her body was. Having spent her lifetime calling her a ‘dainty’ he’d presumed that she would feel light and ethereal in his arms, but she was easily as toned and solid as any member of the guard he’d lain with.

The thought made his stomach twist in a way that was nothing to do with the storm outside.

Another wave dashed the side of the ship and De Sardet squeaked despite herself. Constantin crawled across the small space between them and sat on her other side.

“Come now, Sweet Cousin – you are easily the bravest person I know. The lightening can’t be so terrible…”

“Not the lightening,” she croaked, “drowning in a huge wooden coffin, unable to get out.”

Another wave buffeted the ship and De Sardet pushed her face into the hollow of Kurt’s shoulder, eyes tight shut. He brought a hand to her tumble of hair and buried his rough fingers in loose strands that had worked free from her braid. The warmth of her was steadying – he wasn’t exactly keen on the way the boat was moving either – and he felt his own body relax a little. There was a slight shift in her breathing – an unspoken conversation where her lungs answered the ease in his muscles by taking slower, deeper gulps.

“You alright, Con?” Kurt managed before a particularly large wave knocked the lamp from its hook and plunged the room into darkness. There was silence for a long moment.

“I think, all things considered,” Constantin whispered into the dark, “We should be thankful that the lamp extinguished and didn’t set the floor alight…”

Kurt felt De Sardet’s body stiffen again.

* * *

To begin with, Kurt and Constantin tried to talk above the creak of the wood as the storm tore against the hull. But in the end, they simply sat in silence. Waiting.

In the dark, Kurt was acutely aware of the way De Sardet felt, nestled into him as she was. Time, and the rocking of the ship, had shifted her weight so that now her body lay across his front, her face still hidden in his chest.

He’d been close to her so many times – sparring, wrestling… never tender though. Never with her vulnerable, like this. Even on her off days, at her most clumsy, she had still been his master.

 _And she still is_ , his conscience insisted.

And that was true, of course. She was still the Legate - still the daughter of the Princess.

But she smelled so good. And as her breathing slowed and grew heavy, his skin remembered the how good someone so warm could feel…

Kurt nearly pushed her away with a sudden revulsion and tried to fix the image of that snotty little girl in his mind – he’d known her since childhood, thought of her as family…

And yet…

The conversation between their bodies continued – the quickening of his heartbeat was mirrored by a tremor of her lips as she breathed in.

He was suddenly glad of the darkness – it meant that no one could see the conflict etched across his features.

“It might just be me,” Constantin all but whispered, “But the waves seem less now…”

De Sardet peeled herself from Kurt’s embrace slowly, “Is it over?”

Kurt felt that increasingly familiar pang as her absence left him cold, “Could be. Or it could be the eye of the storm.”

She snapped back against him and said with something of a desperate sob, “No… I can’t go through that again, Kurt – I can’t!”

“Hey… hey…” he couldn’t think of anything more to say so he held her close again, stroking her hair as he cooed to her, “We’re here – we’re both here. I’ve got you, and Con’s right here…”

He hoped no one else heard the unintentional bitterness in his voice.

“We are, Sweet Cousin,” Kurt could feel Constantin’s hand reach out in the darkness to stroke De Sardet’s back.

Beneath them, the wood of the ship creaked and above, they heard one of the Nauts cry out.

The storm raged on and time passed.

* * *

He wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. He wasn’t even sure whether he’d fallen asleep too, or whether he’d simply lost track of time. But he noticed her stirring in the milky light which seeped beneath the door and through the cracks in the shutters.

“Kurt…” Her voice was soft - tired. But it was grateful and warm too.

“You’re going to have to do something really spectacular to be _excellent_ after that,” he smiled.

Her weight rested on one hip, and her body pivoted away from him at point where the curve of her thigh met the wooden boards. There was little more than a foot between their faces, the intimacy of sleep still blanketing the room.

She looked positively angelic, her unruly hair forming a halo in the haze of the early light.

They stared at one another through the quiet, unsure what was to be said. She blushed then, turning her gaze down.

The movement, or the voices – however soft – stirred Constantin.

“And so we survived the night,” he said, his tone slightly too chirpy for the saccharine dawn, “We should probably take ourselves above deck – see if we can offer any assistance.”

Puppy-like in his eagerness to help, Constantin stood and stretched. He tidied the lamp from where it had fallen during the night and left the room with briskness and purpose. Kurt smiled with unexpected fondness as he went – he hadn’t been able to take to the Prince’s son when he’d been a boy, but no one could fault the boy’s eagerness to do good. He supposed, idly, that it was something that came of constantly seeking approval from a distant father.

De Sardet had tamed her wayward hair as Constantin left the room, and looked every inch the legate again. She smiled at him with such warmth that his stomach churned again.

“Thank you, Kurt,” she said and passed him, pecking his cheek softly as she passed, “But I hope you understand that I’m keen to leave this room…”

He watched her go and, almost possessed, his feet followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually finding this a lot harder to write than I thought I would. That switch between being a father-like figure to seeing De Sardet as a potential lover is proving really difficult. Hopefully I've done a half decent job here.


	13. Chapter 13

After the storm, the sea had stilled to a black mirror – water so deep and still that the reflection of clear blue sky seemed almost to hover above the surface, the depths perfectly impenetrable. The sails had sagged – lungs between breaths – and the Nauts had surrendered to exhaustion after their fight against the weather.

At least, to begin with. The stillness had stretched a day and a night now and though the Nauts seemed unconcerned by the lack of wind, a restlessness had begun to stir amongst the ship’s inhabitants.

“There should be a way,” Constantin said, idly swirling his ale around the bottom of his cup, “Of smoothing out the weather somehow. If we could combine this stillness with the storm, then we’d have enjoyed two days of perfect sailing…”

Vasco smiled, “If you find a way, you’ll be a rich man.”

“If you find a way quickly, I think your cousin will be a happy woman,” Kurt muttered through a grin, then found himself damp with the dregs of water from De Sardet’s cup.

“Unkind, soldier!” she crowed, but there was levity in her voice and she swatted at him fondly. He bumped his shoulder against her and winced at himself inwardly – he was behaving like a fresh recruit, besotted and hungry for any touch.

Vasco turned to De Sardet, pity in his eyes.

“You’re not at home at sea, m’lady?”

De Sardet shook her head and gestured their surroundings, “It’s beautiful out here, but it’s no secret that I’m not exactly at ease. I had hoped my apprehension would have dissipated by this point in the journey but the idea of spending any time below deck still fills me with dread. But then, Captain, I’ve never really felt at home anywhere…”

“Not even with me, Sweet Cousin?” Constantin wore an expression of mock hurt and De Sardet stroked his face with the same pantomime exaggeration.

Kurt remembered the way those slim hands had felt clutching his sleeve during the storm.

“That’s not to say I’ve felt uncomfortable everywhere I’ve been – least of all with you, Constantin,” De Sardet clarified, “But _Home_ … that’s something I struggle to identify with.”

“Do you think you’ll find it on the island?” Vasco asked.

“I certainly hope so. I don’t plan on ever making this crossing again unless absolutely necessary.”

Kurt watched as the captain and legate seemed to come to some sort of agreement – her feelings about the voyage seemed to close avenues between them whilst the understanding of her feelings opened new ones. The captain’s body language shifted ever so slightly and Kurt knew in that moment that Vasco’s relationship with De Sardet had fundamentally changed in nature.

It was true then – a sailor’s first love would always be the sea.

“Have you a fiddle, Captain?” Constantin asked, suddenly.

“You’re not going to play, are you?” Kurt asked, “You forget I know exactly how little you practised your fencing – to neglect a fiddle in that way-”

“He’s not actually bad,” De Sardet conceded, “He found it a useful skill for serenading unsuspecting ladies.”

“I was rather thinking you might play, Cousin. You were always so gifted at everything you turned your hand to-“

Both Kurt and De Sardet laughed in tandem.

“I think the ale has gone to your head, Constantin. Or you have a very poor memory. You don’t recall my mother’s salon where each of the children were expected to perform a song and I was the only one asked to stop? Music is not something in which I’m gifted.”

“I remember it,” Kurt laughed, “Your mother started timing her salons so that they coincided with our sessions. She paid me to keep you there for as long as I could.”

“I shan’t hear a word of it!” Constantin cried with the same artifice of dismay as before, “My sweet cousin was always so talented at everything she turned her hand to.”

“I was good at moving, and at talking,” she smiled, “Which is why your father rarely caught us.”

“Then the prince should play and the legate should dance,” Vasco smiled, producing a fiddle from… _where?_

“Quite impossible,” De Sardet said, “Dancing requires a partner and unless the captain has a knowledge of Alliance courtly dances, I fear there isn’t an eligible one for a few hundred miles.”

“You should teach Kurt,” Constantin laughed, “He’s spent enough time in ball rooms without dancing over the years.”

Kurt could feel his face grow warm as he shook his head, “Aye, and I’m happy with that. You can’t dance and hold a cup.”

“You can if you dance like a Naut,” Vasco said, “Shall I show you?”

“You can show _me_ ,” De Sardet said with something that resembled triumph, standing and stripping off her doublet. Kurt turned away – the sunlight shone through her linen shirt to reveal stays and a chemise beneath.

Constantin was tuning the violin – definitely a violin in the hands of the prince’s son and not its informal, friendlier counterpart – and Kurt could feel a rising panic as a number of Nauts drew round. Some had whistles and drums.

De Sardet stood across from the captain and bowed, then Constantin played the start of something sombre which sounded a little like a Theleme hymn. And whilst Kurt was impressed with how technically good he was, it was absolutely the wrong choice of tune. The captain laughed, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, m’lady, I’ll have to sit this one out. Your cousin can only play funeral songs,” a wild cheer from the other sailors, “so I’ll take the fiddle on this.”

De Sardet pouted until a short woman stepped up into Vasco’s place. Other members of the crew peopled the deck around them. Then the captain made the instrument play a glorious chord and everything happened at once.

Constantin had been right when he’d said Kurt had been in many ball rooms and danced in none, but even if he had danced every night, nothing could have prepared him for the furious spins and stomping and joyous yells which filled the deck with bright and glorious _life_.

And De Sardet was in the middle of it all, her slightly shorter partner leading with a strong arm around the legate’s waist. Clumsy for the first few turns until she found her feet, but she was right – she was good at moving – and within a few rounds, she’d found her rhythm and kept pace with the others on the deck.

Constantin watched the captain’s digits across the fingerboard with a concentration that Kurt had never seen before. He was focussed solely on the fiddle – and it was a fiddle again, in Vasco’s hands – that he somehow drowned out the impromptu party that surrounded him.

The song and the dance was repetitive – the same notes played in sequence, speeded up as things progressed until finally, the captain finished on a shrill note and all the dancers bowed and clapped, breathless and joyful.

De Sardet’s partner bowed gracefully to her and this time, the legate curtsied.

She caught Kurt watching her then.

“I think I’ve got it, captain. But might we go again? I must teach my guard.”

“Not a bloody chance,” Kurt said, trying to feign indifference.

He felt that stinging conflict again – the desire to touch her at odds with not wanting to be discovered as a filthy old man.

“I’ll play again,” Vasco said with a smile, “Then perhaps the prince can try and redeem himself!”

A Cheer went up from the crowd and the legate crossed to where Kurt remained seated. She offered her hand – that same, slim hand that Kurt had been jealous to see on Constantin’s face – and Kurt couldn’t help himself.

“You’ll get it,” she whispered to him, as the captain played an introduction, “You’re good at moving too…”

And they were off, swirling and stamping and she was right – it was easy when he surrendered to it. He’d gripped her gingerly to begin with – right and proper – but as they moved, he found it was impossible to do anything but cling tightly to her waist.

Their eyes locked, and behind her, Kurt could see the sail take a deep breath in.

Everything clattered to a halt and a handful of the Nauts ran to fix the sails. Vasco was on his feet, shouting orders. He pushed the violin at Constantin and set to work, clapping both De Sardet and Kurt on the shoulder as he passed, “Well do it properly in port, Your Excellency. We’ll show you how the Nauts celebrate a safe crossing!”

“And you’ll dance with me then, Kurt?” she asked, softly, turning her attention to him.

Kurt noticed then that the rest of the dancers had disbanded. Only he and De Sardet remained entwined. They both blushed and stepped back.

“Looking forward to it, Greenblood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was entirely for my own enjoyment. 
> 
> Who doesn't love a bit of an impromptu ceilidh?
> 
> This is how I imagine the music - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywMPtwM8avs


	14. Chapter 14

Constantin _was_ good with the violin, as it transpired. When Kurt wasn’t sparring with De Sardet – or the handful of guard recruits stationed aboard their ship – he liked to listen to the prince’s son play. The Legate would often join him and they would sit together, making requests for songs, or learning shanties with members of the crew that weren’t on duty.

Kurt knew that De Sardet would never be comfortable on the boat, but she seemed to find solace in the time the three of them spent together. Sometimes, on rare occasions, the captain would join them and try to teach Constantin some reels, which everyone seemed to enjoy a great deal.

That day, as Vasco approached, Kurt fully expected the Captain to have a new tune for them, but instead of a roughly penned score for the prince’s son, he carried a stiff leather tube and made for De Sardet.

“Your Excellency,” he said, with a guarded smile, “There’s something I think you should see.”

The legate’s gaze flicked between Kurt and Constantin, a question flickering across her features. She stood though, and followed Vasco to the bow of the ship. Kurt found his feet too and shadowed her, his stride measured to match hers.

At the rail, the captain carefully unscrewed the top of the leather tube, upending it and letting a brass cylinder drop into his palm. He looked out across the horizon with it, focussed it and held it up for De Sardet to look through. Kurt noted that the captain’s hand never left it, and though he seemed happy to show the legate the view through the lens, he was unwilling to hand it over.

As De Sardet accepted the unspoken invitation to look, Kurt understood why.

Carefully, she placed both hands on the shaft of the telescope, then squinted through the eyepiece. A second later she gasped and almost dropped it. Vasco laughed as she did, his grip still tight as he offered her the chance to look again. Greedily, she placed her eye to the lens and when he was sure she had the brass properly in hand, Vasco released his own grip.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” she breathed, “I’ve looked through eye-glasses when I visited the Bridge Alliance, but I’ve never seen anything like this!”

“That, Your Excellency, is _The Endless Knot_. It’s a Naut vessel that was scheduled to sail out of Hikmet five days ago. Winds being temperamental, I can’t say _exactly_ when she launched, but it does mean-“

“It means we’re around a week out…” It was a barely audible whisper, joyful and relieved but tinged with… something.

“That it does, m’lady,” the captain’s smile was sympathetic, “But that means that this is the hardest part. Now you know we’re nearly there, but still have to wait.”

Vasco had shown Kurt the telescope after De Sardet had left, and Kurt had to admit that it was an impressive object. The tiny speck on the horizon – which was so tiny that he hadn’t been entirely sure it was there at all – had jumped into sharp focus as a majestic galleon, easily the equal of Vasco’s much-loved vessel.

Iniitially, Kurt hadn’t understoof the wisdom in the Naut’s words, but he could see the marked change in De Sardet’s behaviour now that she knew land was close. It was as though her very soul itched – like she found it impossible to find peace within herself. And she wasn’t alone. Constantin too began to grow restless too.

There was even a change in the energy of the sailors as day by day they sped towards the approaching shore – a renewed purpose which made for neat, precise work.

Kurt felt at odds with it all. Whilst he couldn’t ever imagine hanging up his guard’s uniform for one of the Nauts’, he _was_ reluctant to sail into the harbour. The long evenings listening to Constantin play the fiddle whilst talking in respectful whispers with De Sardet as they did so… there was a camaraderie between them that there had never been before, an equality impossible between student and teacher. 

When he found the legate on deck late that night, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. For a moment he considered turning around – finding another railing to lean distractedly against – but she turned then and smiled at him and he found himself approaching her. He tried to muster some sense of enthusiasm to share with her, but when he reached her side and propped himself on the barrier beside her, he couldn’t help but noticed the slightly wistful look that graced her moonlit face.

“You alright, Greenblood?”

“Probably,” she sighed, “Don’t misunderstand me, I will be very glad to plant my feet on solid ground and never so much as set foot on a boat again, but…”

She paused and looked at him for a moment, before turning her attention back to the dancing froth in their wake.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed the chance to spend some more time with you and your cousin. Well, _any_ time without it being a job. You were right – he’s pretty good at the violin.” _And you’re just… good._ Kurt swallowed the words.

“I’d heard him play before but I didn’t realise how naturally it came to him. I do suspect that the Naut songs with become something of a party piece though…” she smiled, “I almost wish we had more time. I’m ready to land, but I’m not sure I’m ready to say goodbye to the old world in its entirety. And that’s what it feels like I’ll be doing when I step off this boat – like it’s…”

She drew her lips in, between her teeth and then bit down – troubled, thoughtful. Kurt was suddenly aware of the fact that he had somehow moved close enough to her to feel the heat of her side against his.

“I miss my mother,” she said quietly, blinking back tears. Automatically, like he had in the storm, Kurt wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened for a second and he was about to step back when she leaned her head against his. It still took him by surprise that she was as tall as he was – Els had reached his shoulder on a good day.

 _But this is_ De Sardet _, not another lover._

“Was she… lucid, when you saw her?”

“She was. She couldn’t see much but she knew me.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say. It didn’t seem like she expected anything more, though.

They stood like that for a while, until the night air and lack of movement made them shiver. Kurt reluctantly peeled himself from his position around her and she stood and stretched.

“I’m glad you’re here, Kurt.”

“Me too, Greenblood. Me too.”

They smiled at one another and she gestured to the stack of blankets she’d been lining her hammock with, “We should probably sleep. There’s a whole new world to explore soon…”

“Are you going to be warm enough out here?”

“It’s not so bad when the sun comes up.”

Kurt chuckled and unclipped his cloak, handing it to her in as unceremonious a way as he could. She pulled it around her and smiled broadly, “Thank you. It’ll give it back first thing.”

He nodded, “Just promise me you’re going to sleep in an actual bed when we reach the port.”

“For at least a week,” she said and began the elaborate task of arranging the blankets. He left her to it. If he’d stayed any longer, he suspected he wouldn’t have been able to leave.

The sting where the cold night air had replaced the warmth of her body on him sang as he descended to the room she should have been sleeping in.


	15. Chapter 15

Kurt smiled to himself, watching the legate leave the dock – the lady Morange was deep in conversation as they walked through the city but De Sardet was distracted. She was doing her best to hide it, but if you knew her – _really_ knew her – it was possible see her tells. There was a slight bounce to the way she stepped – a tautness which betrayed her impatience.

At length, they reached a neat little terraced house and the former governess took her leave. De Sardet paused until Morange was gone, glanced over her shoulder to check for other witnesses and then lay on the floor, face down with limbs spread everywhere. Kurt chuckled.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Kurt chuckled.

“Since we saw the _Endless Knot_ through the telescope, she confessed into the cobbles. She remained there for a time – far longer than Kurt felt comfortable witnessing – then sighed deeply and stood.

After brushing herself down she produced a key and let them inside. It was a humble, largely modest dwelling – yes, the décor was sumptuous, but in terms of size, the whole house stood on a smaller footprint than the palace’s entrance hall.

“Constantin didn’t want to build you something fancy to use as legate then?” Kurt teased. To his surprise, De Sardet stuck her tongue out at him – such an uncharacteristically childish gesture that Kurt snorted a laugh.

“If it were up to him, he would have a similar sized house, I believe. He enjoys his wealth but he likes to spent it on…” she searched for a diplomatic word, “Transient pleasures.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Disposable things?”

She was peeling off her boots and stockings, spreading her toes wide and scrunching them into the thick weave of the rug. Her eyes stayed closed just a second or two, and a slow smile spread across her face.

“I need a bath,” she said in barely a whisper, “Lady Morange said that the staff were ready to supply anything we need. Do you think…” A wicked grin crossed her face and she coughed to clear her throat, tugging on the bell pull by the fireplace for a servant.

It was the housekeeper that arrived with a chamber maid and a valet beside her. It was a small staff for such an important figure, but – Kurt supposed – there would be a similar contingent of employees in both Hikmet and San Matheus, and De Sardet was entirely capable of managing her own affairs.

He watched as she greeted each employee in turn and teased a little story from them – who they had been before they came and what their roles in the house were. Then, she asked for two hot baths – one to be filled in her room and another before the fire in what he was surprised to hear would be his own room. Kurt had never had his own room before.

“M’lady, I can do as you ask, but we haven’t the facilities you’re used to. By the time I boil enough water to fill two baths and lug it all upstairs the water that’s been waiting there will be cold.”

“I see. Perhaps two baths, separated by a screen in front of this fire, then? If we boil some of the water in here, and you boil some in the kitchen, perhaps we can manage?”

“Aye, m’lady – I’ll see to it.”

Kurt wanted to object – to tell them that he could wait until he had time to take a trip to the public bathhouse. But the promise of hot water on his tired limbs, against the backdrop of a glowing fire… it was too beautiful a prospect to turn down.

The servants left to fetch baths.

And he realised that De Sardet would be bathing with him.

She busied herself with a fire poker, pulling the embers into what she thought to be the optimal shape for pot-boiling. Then the housekeeper returned with some large pans of water, rearranged the coals, and left again. De Sardet shook her head and stepped back,

“I’ll stop trying to be helpful,” she murmured, embarrassed.

“You’re going to cause a scandal – tell them one bath is enough,” he heard himself say the words, but he didn’t believe them. He knew what was right and proper, what it was his duty to do, but he wanted nothing more than to melt into the hot water and drink in De Sardet’s conversation across the screen.

“It’s not the first time we’ve done this,” she said easily and a memory came back to him, bitter sweet. He loved that she trusted him because of all they’d done together, but hated that the trust came at a price – he could be no more than a dear friend, a brother.

_She’d been ill when the rest of the royal party had gone travelling. He’d stayed behind with her, to follow on as her escort. She’d lied about feeling better – they’d begun the journey before she was ready. Before they’d even managed a day from the city she had swooned in the saddle._

_He’d all but lashed her to it and carried on to a little inn adjoining a public bath. By that point, Kurt was beginning to feel peaky too, but he fought it – like he fought all things – and he stumbled into the building with her propped against him. The inn-keeper had been kind – matronly – and had had two baths pulled for their room with a screen between. When they’d finished, she’d brought them warm milk with honey through it, and cinnamon sprinkled on top – a wild extravagance for a poor household, but a medicinal spice that was gratefully received._

_She hadn’t known who De Sardet was – they’d gone dressed in plain clothes to discourage attacks – and that’s what the two of them had marvelled at, back to back in their respective tubs._

_“I sort of thought that people were only kind because of who my mother is,” De Sardet had said, “I didn’t think they would be if I was… someone else.”_

_“There’s kindness out there,” Kurt had said with conviction he didn’t feel, “But it’s hard to see at court where folk are hard.”_

_“Is this how you grew up? Were people kind to be… kind?”_

_“No, Greenblood,” he laughed, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice, “But how I grew up isn’t important – fact is, I_ did _grow up. Which is more than a lot of children.”_

_She had been silent for a long while and then, “Sorry I lied, Kurt.”_

_“I won’t tell on you for lying if you don’t tell everyone I got sick.”_

_“Deal,” she said, as though she’d won something. The truth was, Kurt didn’t care who knew of his ailment – and he hadn’t planned on revealing her. He just hoped she wouldn’t lie to him again._

The servants had readied the baths by now, with De Sardet’s somewhat clumsy help. And she had stripped to her shift, brazen and golden in the firelight.

She stepped behind the screen and he saw the shift leave the tops of her arms and heard her sigh as she slipped into the water. He closed his eyes, said something as close to a silent prayer as he would ever say then stripped himself, sliding down into the steaming water.

After the icy wind and salty spray of the sea, the water felt like fresh, soft linen against his skin – smooth and light. Deliciously clean.

* * *

They lay there for hours as the water cooled, exchanging notes on the voyage – she thought the sea looked like chipped black obsidian and he thought molten glass – and on what they expected would be Constantin’s first act as governor. She thought he would assign a stand-in and go exploring, and Kurt thought he would open a race track – horses probably, but possibly a slew of dogs he planned to train himself.

There was salt around the rims of the tubs where water was evaporating, their skin had been so caked.

“I need to get out,” De Sardet said after a time, “My fingers and toes look like raisins. Do you want to go first and I’ll shut my eyes, or shall I go first?”

She didn’t stipulate he should shut his.

“You go,” he heard himself say, in a voice that was half-croak, half-sigh.

She didn’t hesitate, simply stood and rubbed herself dry with a sheet he hadn’t seen the servants leave. Then she emerged from the screen with her shift wrapped around her, tucked under her armpits and just skimming the tops of her breasts. Turned sideways as it was, it skirted just beneath her buttocks – a parody of modesty.

She trotted out of the room, the slabs of muscles on her legs dancing before him. Kurt shifted his position in the tub and hoped she wouldn’t turn to see him hiding his appreciation of her.

But turn she did, “I left the towel on the screen.”

A huge smile, and then she continued.

He forced himself to turn away as she ascended to a point where the wrap-around shift did nothing, but in retrospect he wondered if looking might have been better.

The shape of all he didn’t see haunted him for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish this hadn't taken so long - I've been travelling for the past week, though. Hopefully I'll get more done over the next few days. :) 
> 
> I took a few liberties here - I know Vasco goes with them from the port, but I wanted to give Kurt and De Sardet a night alone :P I'm going to have him join them soon, and have Kurt bump into Sieglinde briefly because I feel like there's a lot to explore in that relationship. As a woman who was 'best man' at a wedding not too long ago, I want to write a male/female friendship that intertwines with a male/female relationship and doesn't end in jealousy because I feel they're vastly under represented:P So.. expect more Sieglinde, I guess :D


	16. Chapter 16

Kurt had spent the night pacing his room, thinking about De Sardet.

He’d started by going over everything they’d spoken about while they lay there, bathing before the fire.

And then he’d unravelled the memory of their travelling in plain clothes to catch up with the rest of the royal party, his thoughts snagging on his attempt to teach her not to lie.

Then he’d touched upon all the other times he’d gone beyond his remit as a Master-of-Arms – all the times he’d acted as authority figure, trying to impart his own sense of morals on her. The thought of it made him feel slightly sick – who was he to try and control her?

He argued that she’d been a child – that it had been his job – but he struggled against that. Did he marvel at her so much now because he’d somehow influenced her into who he’d thought she should be? Had he betrayed that child somehow because he couldn’t rid his thoughts of the Woman Who Had Climbed The Stairs?

Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep – the room was too quiet anyhow – and he made his way downstairs. The staff were awake already, preparing breakfast. He was about to push through the door to the kitchen when he heard voices and paused.

“-s she thinking, anyway? I thought he was some suitor – treated like that! Fetching a bloody _bath_!”

“Jus’ the guard. She had him brought all this way with her when there’s plenty Coin Guard already here.”

“Maybe he is a lover, then?”

“Who’s to say, amongst the dainties.”

Kurt recognised two of the female voices as the chamber maid and housekeeper from the previous nights, but the third was unknown – a servant from another household, no doubt. He felt a knot in his stomach – there was the scandal he’d feared, about to leave the kitchen and return to their own place of employ to spread word that the new Legate was involved somehow with her guard.

And whilst he was – in theory – horrified at having tarnished De Sardet’s reputation, Kurt felt a slight flicker of lightening jolt through his gut. Apparently part of him was thrilled at the fact others thought he might have a chance.

He stepped back from the door and mentally slapped himself. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man – he’d suffered infatuations before. He was strong enough to admit that’s what this was – an infatuation born of familiarity and love. Because he had always loved her, in his way. He’d been too young to acknowledge that before and too inexperienced to recognise that love comes in many forms. Right now, he was still working out one form from another.

Yes, that was it. An infatuation with someone he admired… nothing more. It would fade.

He didn’t really believe his own lie, but it was a comfort hearing it all the same.

Happily, he was saved from further soul searching by a sharp knock at the door. Any servants would have used the back entrance, so this was someone calling for De Sardet specifically. And she was still asleep. He could hear the housekeeper fussing about needing to put things down before she could take a caller, so he placed one hand carefully on the hilt of his sword and pulled the door wide.

It was Vasco, staring sheepishly at him.

“Permission to come aboard?”

Kurt stepped to the side and let him pass, “De Sardet’s still asleep. Can I help with something?”

As he said it, the housekeeper materialised and tutted something about him having ideas above his station. Kurt could feel his teeth grind against one another.

“I find myself in need of employment,” the Naut said with a bitter smile, “But I can wait until she’s awake.”

The former captain sat down before the fire, causing more consternation from the housekeeper and Kurt decided it was time for him to bow out.

“By all means. I’m going to the barracks, though, so…”

Before he could finish his own sentence, Kurt let himself out into the street.

New Serene was a wash of pastel shades in the early morning. There were whispers of industry waking around the square, but for the most part, Kurt could hear the bassline of birds from the port.

He crossed the cobbles, trying to remember the directions he’d been given the previous night. He had just spied the uniform entrance of every barrack he’d ever seen when a figure stepped from the door.

A woman, square and upright with hair scraped back. 

Kurt paused, frozen for a second. As he took a breath to shout her name, she called his and they ran to one another, embracing in the dawn.

“Kurt!”

“Sieglinde!”

They held one another at arm’s length, and scanned each other up and down – two sides of a mirror, unsure whether the other was real or reflection.

“I can’t believe it’s you – when did you get here?” She laughed.

“Our ship docked yesterday. I’m here with the Congreation Legate.”

“And who is our representative on this island?”

“The Lady De Sardet.”

“Ha! One of your royal ducklings!” she shook her head, teasing, “The dainties always did love you, Kurt.”

“You’re just jealous of all the canapés I get to eat while I stand guard at their shindigs.”

“That’s true, I am.” There was a short pause – too many questions and thoughts vying to be asked. Eventually, a banality snuck from Kurt’s lips.

“What are you doing here?”

Though the day promised heat, the morning was chill and Kurt stamped his feet to keep his toes warm. Almost in response, Sieglinde rubbed her hands together.

“I’m actually on my way to a new posting,” she said, “I’ve been sent to a small base outside town. I just thought I’d take the time to explore New Serene a little before I have to set out.”

“Care for some company?”

“You’re free?”

Kurt thought of Vasco, back at De Sardet’s house. He thought of the conversation they were likely embroiled in – if the legate was even awake yet – and about the servants muttering behind his back. The distraction of exploring a new town with an old friend was a delicious concept and he nodded enthusiastically.

“As long as we can start with breakfast, I’m happy to go anywhere,” he said.

And he was happy, he found. Knowing that Sieglinde was on this strange island with him – even if she was posted somewhere else – was a huge comfort. It felt – dare he say it – more like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highly recommend 'The Lifeboat' by Frank Turner if you want some Greedfall-y listening. I can't get enough of this song. 
> 
> "There's a shadow across the land  
> There's a hatred and a hunger, and it's hard to understand  
> How we fell so far from where we began
> 
> There's a stumble now in our step  
> There's blood in the phlegm, there's a lump in the breast  
> There's a smell of sickness on our breath
> 
> There's a dread deep down in our bones  
> Something is finished, abandon your homes  
> Strike out into the great unknown"
> 
> ...
> 
> "There are battles now worth being fought  
> There are lessons to be learned and later to be taught  
> There are soldiers on the field who can't be bought
> 
> There's a clarity now in our view  
> From the prow we see far, all that's old now is new  
> Free at last, we know what we must do
> 
> There is hope now in the wind  
> And the millions who are marching demanding we be kind  
> And the new lands the lifeboats might find"


	17. Chapter 17

The sun had crested the battlements at around the same time as Kurt and Sieglinde. Full of strong coffee and freshly baked bread, lightly whipped butter, and fresh fruit, they ambled along the city walls.

“I honestly never thought you’d leave Serene,” Sieglinde said to him, easily. “You always seemed so… content at the palace.”

Kurt said nothing. He _had_ been content, for the most part. But first Sieglinde had left the barracks for another posting, and then De Sardet had gone for her training… he tried to formulate a response but Sieglinde beat him to it.

“Perhaps it wasn’t the station that made you happy but the people?” There was a teasing song to her words but an earnestness that Kurt recognised – he’d known her long enough to know that she wouldn’t let this go.

Whilst he’d never served with Sieglinde directly, they’d always found one another in the tavern. Their schedules always seemed to coincide and it was nice to have a friend from a different regiment – someone who still understood the workings of the Coin Guards, but who didn’t necessarily know those you were serving with. Their friendship was the perfect balance of familiarity and distance, and Kurt hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it until there, on the walls of New Serene.

Still, she was asking questions that were painfully close to those he’d been asking himself all night.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, reluctantly.

“Constantin always struck me as a spoiled brat,” Sieglinde confessed and Kurt stared. Had… had she really _not noticed_ the way his thoughts flicked back to De Sardet every few seconds? Hadn’t she noticed the fact that he had to stop himself mentioning the legate in every sentence he uttered as they ate and walked? Did she _really_ think that he was here because of _Constantin’s friendship_?

“He is,” Kurt said, tentative, “But I think he’s got his heart in the right place. And he can play a fiddle.”

“A fiddle!” Sieglinde laughed aloud at that, “And you’ll be guarding him, primarily?”

“No,” Kurt looked determinedly away, “I’m firmly a part of the legate’s retinue.”

 _Now_ she heard something amiss. Sieglinde elbowed him, “How much younger than you _is_ she, Kurt?”

“Dunno. Never thought about it,” She cocked an eyebrow then stared hard. He sighed, “Twelve years.”

Sieglinde frowned, and Kurt saw her fingers flutter. “Numbers were never your strong point, Sieg. She’s 23.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then. You should get your leg over and be done with it.”

The way she said it made Kurt cough, incredulously. The words were delivered with such dead-pan pragmatism, he was caught off guard.

“And now I know it’s love,” Siegline laughed.

“What are you talking about?”

“When I suggested you were taken with Safii, you admitted it then bedded her and moved on. Then Kit found you, and you had no trouble talking about her… The only one that ever made you bluster like this was Ara. And you loved Ara.”

Kurt was quiet for a long moment. He _had_ loved Ara.

“I can’t, Sieg,” he sighed at last, “She’s… her mother’s a princess, for starter.”

“Means nothing,” Sieglinde said, easily, “Dainties are always knobbing folk, regardless of their social standing. Why do you think stable hands are called stable _hands­_ – it’s what they get used for. Last house I got posted in, the hay loft was basically a brothel.”

“I adore you, old friend,” Kurt said, “but shut up.”

She slapped his back and offered what could only be described as a pitying look, coupled with a laugh, “And I adore _you_. Enlightening as this conversation has been, however, I really need to get back to the barracks. The sun is high, and we’re meant to be hitting the road soon.”

Kurt nodded and they embraced one another again. He could never decide whether she smelled of pine sap because he knew her father had been a carpenter or because that was how she actually smelled. He drank it in regardless – safe and familiar.

“Look after yourself out there,” he said as he patted her back.

“And you, friend, and you.”

* * *

“Kurt!” De Sardet was smiling at him as he entered the little house, “I wondered where you’d got to. Vasco said you’d been training without me.”

He heard the mock hurt in her voice but chose to ignore it, “I didn’t actually get to training. I ran into an old friend.”

“Wonderful! You can tell me all about it on the way to the palace – we’ve been summoned before the Governor,” her words dripped with sarcasm as she spoke about Constantin and she leaned in conspiratorially afterwards to add, “We’ll take the long way round. I want my cousin to know who’s really in charge.”

He smiled, despite himself and despite the sudden exhaustion he felt wash over him. It had been a long time since he’d gone a night without sleep.

His mind traced dark shapes from the last time it had happened and he turned determinedly away from his memories and towards the legate.

 _Love_ , Sieglinde had said.

When he next looked, De Sardet had her Congregation cape draped across her back, and her sword at her side. She looked every inch the dignitary. She caught his gaze and looked at him, askance.

“You look good, Greenblood,” he said, then added with a smirk, “almost like a real grown up.”

He regretted his choice of words as soon as he’d said them but she didn’t seem to notice. That was worse than her ire, somehow – knowing that she continued to see him as a familial, almost paternal figure.

“The real question, Kurt, is do I look _excellent_?” He laughed despite himself at that and she sighed theatrically, “Was it three of the creatures from the port I had to kill, did you say? Or are there other ways to earn the title you _should_ be calling me?”

“I’m sure I can _think_ of other ways,” he muttered, before he could stop himself. It was De Sardet’s turn to laugh now and she opened the door, her feet sprightly and light on the cobbles.

“Explain them all in great depth on the way to the palace then. All the sordid details.”

“Alright, Greenblood – bluff well and truly called.”

She bowed, “Come – show me where the barracks are and tell me about your friend.”

They walked together for a short while in silence as he tried to formulate a way to explain Sieglinde without making himself seem attached to her in a way he wasn’t.

“We were stationed together for a long time,” Kurt began, “But she was never in my unit. Our paths keep crossing though and it was nice to catch up.”

“She’s not the _arrangement_ you had in Serene?” her tone was light and teasing but she didn’t meet his eyes.

“No,” he said it naturally, he noticed. There was none of the visceral reaction he’d had when Sieglinde had suggested he ‘get his leg over’ De Sardet, “But she’s always been a close friend.”

There was silence for a time and they concentrated on weaving their way through the maze of buildings. As De Sardet had said, they were taking the long way to the palace – they could have merely slipped behind the legate’s little house but unlike Kurt, she hadn’t yet walked the city streets. He enjoyed watching her marvel at the buildings, half-finished, with their wooden timbers tall and stark, waiting to be dressed – winter trees awaiting leafs.

It was busy now – or, busier than when Kurt and Sieglinde had walked the walls earlier. It felt almost like a different place. As they rounded back onto the square, De Sardet stopped and glanced sheepishly at him.

“I… wondered if you ever felt lonely,” she smiled a shy smile and Kurt found himself taken aback.

“I always do,” his own honesty surprised him, “Do you want to rectify that?”

She recoiled a little and he realised he sounded bitter. Why couldn’t he talk to her? What was it about her which made him so utterly incapable of normal conversation?

 _Love_ , Sieglinde had said. He heard her voice warmly mocking him.

“I rather hoped I’d kept you good company all these years,” De Sardet said, a little flushed, “We were always together.”

“I’m glad we were. You always were… extraordinary, Greenblood.”

“But not excellent,” a smirk.

“Don’t push your luck,” he teased, then sighed, “You were my responsibility. I had to watch over you – and Constantin. It didn’t exactly leave us much time for friendship.”

“What about now?”

“Now? I… hope there’ll be more time.”

His words seemed to satisfy her and she made to walk again. At the last minute, she stopped and looked over her shoulder,

“Kurt? You asked if I wanted to _rectify your loneliness_ ,” he cringed as she said it – it sounded… clinical, “What would you have done if I’d said _yes_?”

“I’d have told you to stop being an arse,” she looked crestfallen and he added hastily, “You’re a fair, fine lady and I’m a boorish soldier. I’d hardly be looking after you if I let you hop into my bed, would I?”

And there it was, laid out plain before them.

“And if I wasn’t a _fair, fine lady_?”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

She cocked her head to one side and he found himself suddenly irritated. There was no point to all of this – things were the way they were and love or not, it didn’t matter.

But she looked so bloody wounded. He sighed and rolled his eyes, pushing his irritation down inside him – he’d spar it out later – then clapped her shoulder in what he hoped was a friendly manner.

“We wouldn’t have met, would we, had you not been _a fine lad_ y? I remain grateful for this and every conversation we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some more liberties here - changed the 'Do you get lonely' conversation to make it fit my own purposes more. 
> 
> I hope I've done it well and that Kurt's not too mopey. I have things I want to write about in coming chapters which might push the rating up, but I'll see how it goes. If you have any thoughts regarding rating, I would love to hear them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a big delay in me writing this because I didn't know where I was going with it. 
> 
> Namely, I didn't know whether to detail meeting Siora or not. In the end, I figured that everyone who was reading already knew the game and retelling the scene was probably a little redundant, so I decided to allude to it and write about Kurt's reaction. I'm still not entirely sure I've made the right choice, but... I suppose at least I made one. :P

“Where is she?” Kurt asked, standing and rushing towards the legate. He had been waiting for her in the hall below the governor’s audience chamber, quietly berating himself for not accompanying her and the strange native girl whose face bore the same mark as De Sardet’s.

He felt the familiar tug of shame churn his gut. The legate had addressed the woman with easy courtesy – hadn’t faltered once during the interaction. She had managed to completely swallow whatever she’d felt at being confronted with another face like hers and proceed with her usual grace and good sense.

But it had been too much for Kurt. He’d left De Sardet to go in alone whilst he admonished the guards who’d been on duty for their poor treatment of visitors.

It was easier to turn his attention the failings of others rather than examine his own, and the truth of that rankled him.

“Siora is with the steward. She’s discussing the terrain with him and he’s compiling a list of provisions for us.”

“Provisions for us?” Kurt couldn’t keep the confusion from his voice. De Sardet shook her head as though to clear it – she seemed tired, irritated at having to explain herself again. She gave him a sharp, cursory summary.

“She’s here because the Bridge Alliance is attacking her people and I’m to play mediator.”

Kurt found himself growing impatient – he saw his own shame through the prism of De Sardet’s easy dismissal of him. This, coupled with the lack of sleep, meant he found himself snarling, “You’re not going to even mention it?”

“ _It_ , Kurt?”

“Her mark. Just like yours.”

A shadow of feeling flicked across her face, too quickly for him to make sense of it.

“I wasn’t going to mention it _here_ , no,” her eyes flicked to the servant scrubbing the floor, “I’ve asked Captain Vasco to wait for Siora though, and to escort her back to my property so perhaps we can address your concerns _there_ while we wait for their arrival?”

It sounded as though she was asking him a question, but he knew her well enough to know what was an order and what wasn’t.

His growing irritation deflated inside himself. Reduced to _this_ – bickering and pulling rank. When only a few brief hours before they’d been stood in the square talking about the possibility of…

But she was leaving the hallway now. He rushed to follow, his footsteps dancing across her shadow as they moved. There was no detour this time – merely a decent of the stairs and a sharp turn to the right. They entered the building in a brisk, business-like manner, and once inside, Kurt fully expected De Sardet to snap at him for his tone.

Part of him wanted her to.

But she didn’t. He watched as she carefully pulled off her cloak and folded it neatly over the back to the chair. Her movements were measured – controlled – _calculated_ even. Finally, she sat down by the fire, her back stiff and her chin high.

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear. He frowned, but said nothing, moving towards her with the same rigid movements that she’d employed moments before.

She turned her face to him. There was no hint of emotion there – she wore a perfect, placid mask. As though she were reciting a script and hadn’t noticed he’d missed his line, she answered his unspoken question.

“I promised I’d sleep in a bed for at least a week after we arrived. I’m afraid I plan to break my vow.”

They remained in an uneasy silence – something Kurt found utterly foreign. He’d always found De Sardet’s company so easy. At length, she gestured to the second chair by the fire without looking at him. Her eyes were locked somewhere amongst the cinders.

“I don’t even know the name of the wood we’re burning,” De Sardet said finally, “Our people came here, felled a tree and I have set it to ash without even asking what the species of wood is called.”

Kurt said nothing – there was a melancholy to her voice that he hadn’t ever heard before – stiff and formal. A soliloquy in her performance. All he could do was watch.

“But it’s a familiar scent,” she went on, “The way the smoke smells… it’s different, from back on the continent and yet, I know it.

“I said on the boat that nowhere I’d been ever felt like home, and that was true then, but last night when I lay on the cobbles I felt… _something_ stir in me and _home_ is the closest word I have for it. Siora said her mark appeared when she bound herself to the island. Was I… bound? At birth? Is this some sort of bondage?” Her finger traced the thin tendrils of the birthmark across her jaw and Kurt’s heart ached – he longed to know how the dark contours which mapped her skin felt, longed to follow the path of her finger with his thumb.

And then the façade cracked and a huge, fat tear rolled down the legate’s face, “I shan’t ever be able to ask my mother if she…” she threw up her hands suddenly, violently, and Kurt recoiled.

De Sardet was on her feet then, pacing to and fro before the fire.

“If we’re going to see Siora’s people, I should be able to ask them, no? Should be able to request clarification for what makes an _En on Menawi_?”

She stared at Kurt suddenly and he felt himself tear a little inside – part of him wanted to hold her, to sooth her like he had on the boat, and part of him knew he should hold back. He was already too familiar with her as things stood.

“I think you need to call for an early supper, and some coffee. Then I think we need to take a walk outside the city walls,” he tried to smile, “I bet your cousin was delighted when he saw Siora, wasn’t he? I bet he has all sorts of machinations planned where he can send her in your stead while you keep him entertained?”

De Sardet chuckled weakly by way of response. Kurt stood then, almost as though his feet had a mind of their own. He crossed to where she had paused and faced her. She looked away, but he reached out and held her by the shoulders, “Look at me, Greenblood.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

“I said, _look at me_.”

She did so then, and he held her gaze, searching the inscrutable depths of her amber eyes. “Whatever this means – this business with your mark – you’re not alone.”

They remained there, locked in a moment which seemed to sing in Kurt’s ears. His blood thrummed so hard through his skull that he could barely think straight. The tension was palpable. De Sardet leaned the weight of her body ever so slightly into where his hands gripped her shoulders. He felt his lips part, watched as hers did the same…

There was a knock on the door from the street and De Sardet sprang back, as though she’d been burned. She called out with that slightly-too-loud, slightly-too-high voice that the knocker should enter.

Kurt slumped back down into the seat by the fire, trying to swallow the day’s feelings. Vasco and Siora entered the property and De Sardet began to try and organise sleeping arrangements for the night, and where they should collect the supplies from the royal steward the following morning. She was earnest, busy… but Kurt couldn’t help notice the slight jumpiness to her movements, or the red flush which skirted her collar bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intention here was to try and show De Sardet's reaction to learning that her/his mark isn't the unique birthmark s/he thought it was. 
> 
> I thought the game didn't do nearly enough with that - especially initially, just after meeting Siora. For example, Siora mentions being 'bound' to the island spirit, and I thought that in a society like those represented on the continent, that 'bound' would generally be a word tied to things like serfdom, and slavery. I tried to base her reaction on the context her past has informed, rather than on my own understanding of the island culture. 
> 
> I hope that makes sense, and I'm not just babbling away here :P Anyways, as ever, I really hope you've enjoyed reading it. I'm still having a lovely time so I guess expect more chapters?


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, I've mainly been listening to Biffy Clyro's 'Many of Horror'.
> 
> "When we collide, we come together,  
> If we don't we'll always be apart,  
> I'll take a bruise - and oh, you're worth it,   
> When you hit me, hit me hard."

He found De Sardet alone, outside the village.

Siora’s people had been kind to the legate and her entourage following the battle, but they were mourning and Kurt could tell that De Sardet felt she was intruding on their grief.

The sun was sinking as he approached her, her figure sharp and silhouetted against the fading light. She seemed older and harder than before, the soft curves of her body erased by armour. It was only as he drew close enough to pick out the details of her form that Kurt realised this had been the first battle she’d seen.

She’d fought before, of course – at his side, no less – as they made their way through the streets of Serene at night. But she’d never seen the mass of bloodshed, shattered bones, and dying men that true battle brought.

Kurt had – but even then, only a handful of times. The Congregation of Merchants had been at peace for so long that there was seldom need for the Coin Guard to take arms én masse. It was all such a bloody waste of life and potential – and that was desolate enough – but what really haunted Kurt more than anything was the smell – blood and piss and shit. The history books never told that part when they recorded glorious campaigns for the ages.

He tried to push such thoughts from his head. He’d come to check on the legate, not to recount past killing fields.

She saw him approach and he raised a hand in greeting. When he was close enough that he could talk at a more intimate volume, he smiled and nodded back to the village,

“You alright, Greenblood?”

“Probably,” she said, with a weak smile, “Though I can’t help but wonder how things might have been had we arrived sooner.”

“This isn’t on you,” Kurt said. He stopped himself from going to pull her into an embrace. He had to be realistic – his motives were no longer innocent and it wasn’t right for him to take advantage of her feelings to gratify his own.

“If we’d left from the palace as soon as Siora arrived… if I’d pushed for horses…”

“ _If_ the guards on the stairs hadn’t stopped her. _If_ Constantin hadn’t insisted on talking to you before Siora had chance to speak. _If_ a thousand things – _if, if, if_. You can’t live your life by _ifs_ Greenblood. It’s not healthy.”

_And you should know, Kurt._

“I know… I just…” she sighed and looked away from him, into the greying woods, “The battle? Are they all like that?”

“Like…?”

She shook her head and shrugged, “So bloody senseless.”

“Every single one I’ve seen.”

Silence descended again and they watched the twilight creep towards them through the trees. After a time, De Sardet’s shape in the darkness and the lights of the fires in the village were all Kurt could see.

The space between himself and the legate was poignant, important, but Kurt felt frozen and unable to do anything that seemed right. So the quiet stretched out before them like the darkness.

Until the sound of music reached them from the village, a slow mournful dirge.

“Vasco will be loving _that_ ,” Kurt muttered sarcastically. De Sardet’s body language changed beside him and he knew she was smiling.

“The good captain hasn’t had chance to show us how the Nauts celebrate a crossing as he promised, has he?”

“Can he though, if he’s no longer a Naut?”

“I suppose not,” there was a pause, “A shame. You promised me a dance.”

“I don’t remember-“

“You even said you were looking forward to it.”

Kurt harumphed and De Sardet laughed.

“You’re infuriating,” he said trying to sound as though the thought of dancing with her was hateful. The memory of his arm around her waist as they spun across the deck of the ship haunted him though.

“Then we suit each other well enough,” there was levity in her voice, though it was tinged with melancholy. They both sighed in unison and chuckled low and bashful.

“I knew things here would be different to back in Sérène but I didn’t realise how... _urgent_ everything would feel. I haven’t even had chance to open my boxes back at the house and now I’m out here, about to set out for some Alliance camp in the hope of rescuing a native queen… ”

“Is that a complaint, m’lady?” He flashed a wry smile, “And here I thought you weren’t the workshy type.”

She laughed, loud and long, “High praise indeed!”

“Eh?”

“When I was in Thélème, the captain there informed me that if a member of the Coin Guard ever called you a ‘good worker’, then it was as good as a declaration of true love.”

Kurt felt his cheeks flush hot and his stomach flash cold. He was thankful for the darkness then, and for the fact that when he spoke, it was with a gruff indifference he didn’t feel, “Don’t be daft. You’d know it was love if I ever called you _Excellency_.”

That imperiousness crept back into her voice, “I could order you to…”

“I could quit.”

Silence, then, “What if I ordered you to dance?”

“I could still quit,” he teased, but before he could stop himself he added, “But I probably wouldn’t.”

“Kurt?”

“Hmm?”

“Dance with me?”

He wanted to say yes, to hold her again, but he put steel in his bones and drew his sword because in the end, it was all he could do, “Only if I can lead.”

She chuckled, low and hollow, drawing her own weapon, “You see, you’re just as infuriating as I am, Soldier.”

They circled one another in the moonlight, De Sardet striking first as she stepped easily within his reach, “Slow, old man.”

He struck her shoulder with the pommel of his great sword and her knees buckled slightly, “Or willing to take a hit in order to give one.”

She grunted and stepped back, and for a moment he felt his heart in his mouth at having hurt her – that was new. They hurt one another all the bloody time and he never thought twice about it. But he’d taught her well and she saw the turmoil on his face, pushing her advantage and striking at his knee with her foot.

“Not seen enough carnage today?” he grunted as he regained his stance and shoved her over in one fluid motion. She clattered to the ground, dropping her sword. But De Sardet was resourceful - she pulled at his ankle as she collapsed. He fell onto her and she scrambled to lock an elbow around his neck.

“You’re the one who wanted to spar,” she growled from where she squirmed beneath him.

Her arm was around his throat now, taut and strong. He’d been distracted – let himself think of her as something other than an opponent. His mind had been elsewhere and now she’d finally got the better of him after all these years.

He hammered his first on the floor twice to yield and she released the pressure of her arm, but didn’t let go.

They remained there, panting at one another, locked in the parody of an embrace.

He could feel her breath on the soft skin behind his ear and he shuddered, blissfully. She moved slightly and as she did so, her lips accidentally brushed the space there. Kurt closed his eyes against the temptation to pin her to the soft, warm moss beneath them.

With every inch of his strength he forced himself to stand, catching an image of her prone beneath him as he turned. It was almost too much.

When she stood she faced him, her face a perfect mask of calm. But he knew her too well to believe it – he could see the impish pride in her eyes.

“Well done,” he grunted.

“You let me win.”

“Didn’t.”

“You could have had me so many times then,” Kurt held back an incredulous cough at her turn of phrase.

“But I didn’t,” he snapped, “And that’s the bloody point. You won, Greenblood.”

There was a harshness to his voice which startled both of them. De Sardet froze for a second as if trying to decide what to do now. Then contrary to everything he’d expected, she took a step towards him. He scrambled back – inelegant and ashamed in the moonlight.

She did it again, her amber eyes calculating and a smile spreading across her lips.

Then her strong, quick fingers darted forwards and grabbed at both of his hands, placing one on her shoulder and the other at her waist.

“Your forfeit for losing, Captain,” she grinned. Then, “Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

Kurt groaned despite himself. The sound was borne of desire, but she took it for exasperation.

And that was good. How it should be.

But not what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing NaNoWriMo at the moment, so this is either going to serve as procrastination for me and I'll write loads, or there won't be many updates through November. Either way, hope you enjoyed this little bit.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references domestic violence, murder, and parental death. 
> 
> They're not detailed references - a sentence or two. 
> 
> There's also a very vague reference to Kurt's past (those who've played the game know what I'm referring to), but again, it's a fleeting sentence and no worse than in game dialogue.
> 
> Also, I edited it because a. I can't spell Sieglinde consistently, and b. I accidentally wrote Theleme when I meant San Matteus... Sorry people who read this pre-edit...

Kurt hadn’t waited for De Sardet to wake the following morning.

They had slept in Siora’s family home, a row of bodies at the foot of the bed Siora shared with her sister.

In the early light, Kurt had scratched a message to the legate on a scrap of parchment using some charcoal from the fire.

_Need to go back to New Serene. See you there.  
Yours, Kurt._

He’d held the note in his hands for a long time, staring at the last two words and wondering whether he should leave it or not. He’d signed the only other letter he’d written to her the same way – to do otherwise now would seem wrong. But he worried about the impact of such a thing regardless.

It was easy enough to retrace their steps and find a caravan willing to take him back to the city. He told himself that it was better this way – that it was his job to care for both De Sardet and Constantin and that by leaving her to Vasco’s guns and Siora’s wide range of skills, he could better watch out for the governor.

He told himself that by the time she was finished with the Alliance camp, his infatuation would have run its course and he’d be free to traipse around the island with her.

 _Love_ , Sieglinde’s voice teased in his memory, but he swallowed it down and set his head back against the side of the carriage, closing his eyes and trying to sleep.

Of course he failed – he kept seeing De Sardet climb the stairs, or the rough-looking skin of her birthmark, or the way she’d looked beneath him the previous night as they’d sparred.

He was relieved when the carriage paused to let on new passengers.

“Bloody hell, Kurt – if I didn’t know better I’d say you were following me.”

Kurt didn’t need to look, he simply laughed low in his throat.

“I was just thinking of you, Sieg.”

“Do these other folks know? Might want to go somewhere private to do that next time,” she said, and squeezed in next to him, making an obscene gesture with her hand that he heard but didn’t see, “I thought you were with one of your royal ducklings.”

“On my way from one to the other.”

“Did you take my advice?”

“No, I did not.”

“Hmm.”

Kurt sighed and deigned to open his eyes.

“What are you doing _here_ Sieg?”

She groaned, “Play at being a glorified messenger.”

She flicked her eyes around the caravan – there was an enormous man with the look of a farmer to him, two native women carrying what Kurt could only guess were instruments, and a noblewoman trying to look poor. Had it been only the musicians and large man, he suspected Sieglinde would have told him more, but the noblewoman gave them both pause.

“Hey, Princess,” Sieglinde said, across the little wooden carriage, “You alright there?”

The woman looked startled, eyes darting from one side to another, “Me?”

“Aye. You,” Kurt said, “You look a bit… _green_ to be out on your own.” He meant the word two ways – noble and inexperienced, but she chose to take it as the later only which told Kurt everything he needed to know about her. He smirked as her temper brimmed.

“I’ve had training – I can very much take care of myself,” she sounded _so indignant_ , and for a moment, Kurt felt an all too familiar pang as he remembered escorting the young De Sardet home drunk.

He snorted to himself, as the memory of her producing the short sword from her skirts resurfaced. Unfortunately, the woman sat opposite thought he was laughing at her. Sieglinde swatted his arm.

“He means no disrespect, ma’am. He’s not been sleeping recently,” then, in an exaggerated stage whisper, “ _There’s a woman he loves and can’t have._ ”

Kurt batted her back and the woman stared hard at them, trying to decide what she’d done to merit such poor luck in travelling companions.

“I’m Sieglinde, and my companion here is Kurt. We’re members of the Coin Guard,” Sieglinde gestured to their uniforms, “I was merely asking after you because you look out of place, and as we’re still in Congregation territory, it’s still my job to make sure everyone’s fine. Are you? Fine?”

“She’s clearly running away,” Kurt said, tipping his head back again and closing his eyes, “She’s wearing what she thinks are poor folks travel clothes and she’s got marks around her neck.”

There was a rustle of skirts and a whispered hiss, “Fine, I’m running. But hold your bloody tongues.”

“What’s your name,” Sieglinde asked, more gently.

“Lady Saintere…” she murmured softly.

“Do you want him dead?” The flat, matter-of-fact way Sieglinde asked made even Kurt start. The lady stared hard for a moment, as though unsure of what to say – if she agreed, would the Coin Guard be obligated to arrest her? But in a moment of boldness and in a voice that was much too loud, she responded.

“Yes. I rather think I do.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he stay?”

“An outpost out of San Matteus.”

Sieglinde nodded, “I’ll do it myself next time I’m there. Then I’ll send word. Where are you staying in New Serene?”

Lady Saintere wrote down an address and Sieglinde nodded, slipping it into her breast pocket. When that was done, the woman pulled her hood up and pointedly stared away from them.

“So which duckling are you off to see now? The drake?” Sieglinde continued as if the rest hadn’t happened. Kurt’s jaw dropped.

“That’s it? No explanation as to why you’re suddenly an assassin? There’s three bloody witnesses to the arrangement here-“ he gestured around the carriage, “And then there’s _me_.”

“But you won’t do anything, will you?” she said, as though it was a given, “And I doubt that these two fine women object to me killing another Renaigse?”

They chuckled and shook their heads in unison, before one piped up, “I would kill any man that tried to strange me.”

“There you go then…”

“You could lose rank for this,” Kurt pointed out, but idly. He found he was staring a Lady Saintere’s neck and picturing De Sardet’s. He was imagining things that had been done to him, done to her, and he found that he was suddenly very much in favour of Sieglinde’s side line in hired killings.

“Who hurt you?” Saintere asked, turning her attention to Kurt’s companion, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No one hurt me,” Sieglinde said, her flat and easy, “But my mother hurt my father every day until she killed him. She was caught by a member of the guard and I signed up at once – I wanted to be able to stop that for everyone else.”

There was a long moment of silence and then Sieglinde added, “I would try and make sure that there are contracts in place for when he dies. You want to hold on to his money.”

The large man snored loudly – a noise so enormous that he woke himself, and everyone in the carriage jumped to be doing something other than talking about assassinations. The musicians even started strumming the start of a haunting tune, as though diligently practicing in transit.

The melody tugged at Kurt’s heart and he remembered De Sardet on the hill – her quick, strong fingers grabbing at him and forcing him to dance.

 _Three steps forward, Soldier. Three back. Turn. It’s a romantic dance, Kurt, try to at least pretend you like holding me…._ a bright, musical laugh, _Moody eyes are good too though._

“It is the drake,” he blurted to Sieglinde, suddenly, pulling himself roughly from his reverie.

“Boring,” she responded, “I want to hear more about the hen, thank you.”

“I bet you do. Truth is,” Kurt braced himself – if he couldn’t be honest with Sieglinde after he’d just witnessed… _that_ , then he could never say it, “I can’t be apart from her. I need to find someone to take my place with the drake.”

He thought of hands around her neck, without him there to stop them. He thought of violent, silent acts in the night without his sword at her side. He thought of dancing in the moonlight, of the way she moved beneath him… It was true. He wouldn’t ever be able to leave her again.

“It’s worse than Ara then?”

“It’s worse than Ara.”

“Then you need someone you can trust with the drake. I actually have a roster with me,” she reached into the cylinder which hung from her chest and pulled out a long list of intricately written names.

Kurt thought of his hastily scratched charcoal missive and winced.

“I believe many of these men are your recruits…” Then she grabbed a pen and turned the parchment over, writing something and handing it to him. He glanced at what she’d written.

_Need to talk in private. Things happening. Burn this._

“I like a few of those names,” Kurt said, turning the sheet over with a nod and settling on one of the men her recognised.

_Rainer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first NaNo-procrastination chapter. If it's riddled with errors it's because I have two documents open at once and I'm not really concentrating on either. Even here in Scotland, we're watching the US election unfold.


	21. Chapter 21

“Alright – what’s going on?” Kurt asked Sieglinde as they hunched over their ales in a tavern known as one which catered almost exclusively to the Nauts. They had donned as non-descript clothes as they could find and opted for the darkest corner, hoping that no one there would see their lack of tattoos. Even so, both Kurt and Sieglinde had pushed their chins deep into the wide scarves they’d opted for.

“Notes are being passed between high ranking guardsmen,” she said, as though that should explain everything. Kurt groaned, loudly enough that a head at the next table turned in his direction. He lowered his voice and frowned at his friend.

“That’s all you’ve got for me? Notes? Notes are passed all the bloody time – you passed one to me on our way here.”

She rolled her eyes, “Point is that it’s _some_ high ranking guardsmen and not all. I’ve asked about them directly and been told it’s ‘above my pay grade’ even though the officers in question are my subordinates, and I’ve tried having an illicit peek when no one’s looking. The notes are always burned immediately, though.”

“So, the guard is splitting into factions? This isn’t the first time this has happened… surely there’s protocol for what we should-“

“I looked into it,” she said, “Honestly, Kurt, what do you take me for? There’s a pattern in who’s getting the notes. They’re going to high ranks in important houses. The Mother Cardinal sort of important houses.”

“That’s…” Kurt breathed. But he couldn’t quite think of what that was. And he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation.

“Look, I don’t need you to do anything, I just wanted to warn you. I know how much your royal ducklings mean to you, and you can’t be everywhere at once.”

Kurt chewed the inside of his lip and nodded, a gesture accompanied by a growl which Sieglinde knew to take as thanks.

“What are you going to do?” he asked her.

“I’m going to try and get to the bottom of it. I think you should make sure that your little pets are well-guarded though – by your men. Men you trust. You look at that roster I gave you?”

“Aye, I did. There’s a name I like the look of there.” _If I can find him_ , Kurt thought darkly to himself as he recalled the days spent searching through the ranks and coming up short.

“Just make sure that they’re properly yours. You still planning on leaving your underlings with the drake and staying with the hen?”

“What do you think?”

She smiled and shook her head, “I’ve never seen you like this before… I have to say, it’s hilarious for me.”

“Never seen _me_ like this? What the hell was that on the way over? When are you going to Theleme for your ‘job’?”

Sieglinde shrugged, “Don’t judge me for that, Kurt. Don’t you dare.”

He felt a flash of shame wrack his heart and sighed, “Sorry. It’s just all-“

She patted his hand, “It’s fine. Just let me have my vengeance. I’ll never get back at my mother, but I can make someone else’s life better. Come on, we’d better go.”

Kurt glanced around him and noticed how full the tavern had suddenly become. He imagined that a boat must have just come in. They stood and nodded to one another, before leaving the establishment in opposite directions.

Kurt followed the road from the docks up past the merchant quarter and then into the huge square at the foot of the palace. Up to the left was De Sardet’s little house. He smiled to himself and decided to indulge a whim to walk past.

He was surprised to see the lamps lit, and hearing voices inside, he approached. She was home, then.

He was about to turn around to leave when the door opened. A messenger was leaving, but it wasn’t the housekeeper that was letting him out – it was the Legate.

“Kurt!” she jumped. The messenger stared, dumbfounded at the unexpected figure before them, but De Sardet waved him away and then stepped out into the growing darkness, shutting the door behind her. Kurt stood, frozen to the spot. Down the clear side of her face, his eyes traced an angry, crimson line where she’d been hit with a weapon. And the socket beneath it was an irritated blue.

She walked towards him, seemingly oblivious to her injuries.

When she was sure there was no one there, her carefully neutral expression broke into… what was it? Relief, rage?

“Where the hell did you go?” she snarled.

“You-“ he started, but he couldn’t keep going. What was he supposed to say? _I thought you were more than capable of looking after yourself so I was negligent and let you get hurt? I was stupid enough to trust your well-being to people who don’t love you_?

She ignored his flapping mouth and folded herself around him. Dumbfounded, Kurt returned her embrace, but he found his arms were stiff, reluctant.

“Greenblood,” he breathed, then stepped back, realising they were in full view of every eye-like window around them. She slapped his chest, frustrated.

“I was so worried! I didn’t know whether to go after you or keep going forward with Siora. If I didn’t know what your handwriting looked like, I would have thought that note was a forgery – that you’d been kidnapped!”

“You know what my writing looks like?” his tone was dubious, but her face told him he shouldn’t be.

She flushed – a blush so heady that he could see it beneath her mark, and beneath the swollen purple bruise on her face. “I keep important letters.”

“Like the one from that knob-end in Theleme?” A bitterness he hadn’t even realised he felt poisoned his question, and the legate stared, almost open-mouthed.

“Last time I share anything with _you_ ,” she sniped back and physically recoiled. Kurt drew a breath through his nose and nodded.

“I’m sorry… that… wasn’t called for. I came straight back here after I left you. I wanted to make sure Constantin was safe. I thought that if I made sure there were good people at his side – people _I_ trust – then I’d be free to explore with you,” Then he added weakly, “And that way, neither of us would have to worry about him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Do you honestly think I would object to you looking out for my cousin?”

 _I left because I knew that if I didn’t go right then, that I never would._ But what he actually said was, “I didn’t think. I’m not used to you being the one in charge.”

“Did you find someone, for Constantin?”

“There’s actually something I’d like to talk to you about…”

“I’m listening…”

“I wondered if you might come with me to the barracks. The recruit I had in mind to watch your cousin should be posted in New Serene, but no one seems to have heard from him. I thought maybe we could go and use some of those diplomatic powers you have to get the quartermaster to talk.”

“Shouldn’t he answer to you anyway, _Captain_?”

“He should. But he isn’t, and that’s concerning in itself.”

It was properly dark now and the light from inside the house framed the door like an angular halo. De Sardet glanced over at it with a longing stare.

“Shall we get some sleep first?” she asked, “Siora’s got my room – I thought she needed some time and space to deal with the she’s been through. And Vasco’s got your room because… well, you vanished, and I didn’t know where else to put him. The accommodation I can offer you is… limited…”

“Then I should go back to my bunk at the barracks. Where are you going to sleep?”

She seemed to be torn then – on the cusp of telling him something, asking him something. But she sighed and said, “I’ll take the chair by the fire. After these last few days, it’s a luxury – trust me.”

“But you’re hurt,” Kurt started to object, “Didn’t I teach you that a warrior’s best friend is rest?”

“And where else should I go, Kurt?” her tone was gentle, tired. The mixture of acceptance and reluctance in her smile was so beautiful.

“At least let me look at your wounds?”

She sighed, “They’re not as bad as they look. You’ve cracked me worse, just never on my face.”

They stared at one another before he nodded, reluctant to go but unable to think of any more reasons the stay.

“I’ll come by in the morning,” she said at last, “I’ll let Siora sleep, but I can bring Vasco if you want to pretend he and I are hired muscle?”

When Kurt said nothing, she went on, “With a face like this, who’s going to argue?”

He laughed, the sound wry and hollow in his throat, “Who, indeed?

He waited until she let herself back into the house and wandered slowly away, his head a mess. He was so angry with himself – he’d left her in the wilds so that he could find someone to watch her cousin, but he’d found no one, and she’d been hurt without him there. The knowledge of it twisted at his stomach and gnawed his guts. 

He reached the barracks without incident and went straight to the bunk he’d been using since he arrived in the city. There was a messenger hovering around inside, apparently with post for him, but Kurt merely glanced at it, saw it was from somewhere higher up the chain of command and shoved the lot into his kit bag. Sieglinde’s words didn’t even enter his mind - _There’s a pattern in who’s getting the notes. They’re going to high ranks in important houses._

He slept fitfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my NaNoWriMo novel and am now happy to be back on Tir Fradi. ^.^
> 
> This little bit is my attempt to set up the coup. I always felt like Kurt's involvement in it sort of came out of nowhere and I wanted more detail as to how he got involved - or didn't, in this case. I love some of the things I've seen other writers do, where they use the 'I'm betraying you' cut scene as a decoy, for Kurt to then side with his royal charges, but I'm not quite that creative so we're going for 'inattentiveness because Lovesick' here. :D


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. I messed up in a previous chapter (20). I had Sieglinde talking about going to do away with an unpleasant character in Theleme, but I actually meant San Matteus. So... sorry! 
> 
> I've now edited chapter 20 accordingly and noted the edits in the comments.
> 
> This chapter is set just after the gang has discovered Reiner's fate, but before Vasco finds his family. :)

Kurt sat on the step of De Sardet’s house, staring at nothing in particular. He was sure that his mind was supposed to be filled with all sorts of rage and questions and remorse but he felt nothing. His soul was numb.

He was dimly aware of the legate coming to sit alongside him.

“Kurt?” she asked, gently. He nodded to show he knew she was there, but said nothing. There was a long pause, but even De Sardet’s presence couldn’t spark any thoughts. It took a good few minutes before Kurt felt the warmth of a palm, seeping through the cloth of his breeches.

“How are you feeling?”

“Nothing,” he stated, hearing the bleakness in his own voice, “I feel nothing.”

He was dimly aware of her moving closer.

“You seem to have been really attached to Reiner.”

Kurt shrugged, trying to forced words from his lips, “He brought back memories. I was a bit like him, at that age.” _That was when my captain brought me to you. I let you both down._

She was silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable stillness and Kurt felt it necessary to talk. “I felt responsible for him. I recruited him, trained him…”

He could sense her eyes on him and looked up at her, the concern in her face real and beautiful.

“In which case, he had the best training possible,” she tried to smile, but looked sadder somehow. _No less lovely, though_ , “I know I would have liked more time with you. Might have taught be to block better… ”

She gestured her battered face and Kurt felt a new sense of shame and failure begin to eat at his insides.

“You jealous of the poor kid?” Kurt tried to smile, but his words sounded flat.

“Of course not,” she tightened her fingers on his thigh, “I just… wanted to understand. I care about you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. She … _cared_ about him?

“I’m sorry I made that stupid comment… I just…” he sighed. “This isn’t exactly within the realms of teacher and student conversation. I get… nervous.” He felt like such a fool when he said it – like he was still that adolescent boy outside of the prince’s chambers all those years ago.

She didn’t react though. At least, not to his poor choice of words.

“I’m not your student any more though,” she said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth upwards, “I have to say, I do miss being your favourite.”

“You were my favourite, were you?”

“It’s fine – you can tell me. I promise not to let Constantin know,” she nudged her shoulder into his, inviting a verbal sparring match, trying to coax him back to himself.

“What makes you think you were my favourite?” she had been, of course – it was impossible not to prefer the funny, gregarious little girl to her sullen older cousin – but he had been careful not to show it. Or thought he had. The shame he felt at the bruises on her face, at Reiner’s death… they merged with this new dread that he had somehow behaved inappropriately with one his recruits, like _He_ had… Kurt felt his stomach churn as he waited for an answer.

“I never had to run circuits, or stay behind and do additional exercises like Constantin did…”

“That wasn’t because you were my favourite. You were just … good. You said yourself on the boat, you’re good at moving and talking, but you’re best at listening. You’d hear the instruction, think about it, then do it. And afterwards, you’d ask questions. Then you learned. Your cousin… didn’t.”

“And here I was thinking I was special.” Again, she was trying to goad him into their usual, easy banter.

“You are,” he said, before he could stop himself. To her credit, she didn’t recoil from him, but he felt her body stiffen at his side and winced inwardly. This was not his best day. He sighed then, and stood, “I should…”

“Sit back down,” it was her imperious tone, eyes locked on his and intense like he’d never seen them before. He needed her then – it wasn’t love, or even lust. It felt like he was like drowning without her. But Kurt was nothing if not disciplined and he remained at arm’s length, stood while she sat, rooted to the spot.

“I need to go,” he managed, but it was barely a growl, carried on a sigh.

“No, you don’t. Not ever,” she replied in the same heart-sick low murmur.

They stared at one another for a long moment. The sun had gone down long ago, and there was a chill to the air, despite how balmy the day had been. Kurt saw a shiver ripple through De Sardet’s body – she was cold. He went to unfasten his cloak to pass to her, but she shook her head, standing but never taking her eyes off him. Fumbling behind her, those thin, strong fingers found the handle and she opened the door, backing into the warmth of the living room. Unable to stop staring at her, he followed, as though drawn along by some invisible string.

Inside the friendly, warm room, she was bashful – mindful of how close he was. The trappings of civilisation fought against the animalistic night and in here at least, won out. She sat, prim and elegant in the chair by the fire. He remained standing.

“Is… are the other’s still here?” he asked.

“They are. But… there are two chairs. Stay with me?”

“For a while,” he said, but his voice sounded distant, as if it was someone else talking.

“Tell me…” she searched for something to ask him, to talk about to fill the space between them, “Tell me about your childhood – something that made you happy. You know so much about me growing up but I know almost nothing about you.”

So he told her, stilted and slow at first but warming to the topic. He recounted the time he’d gone swimming with the other recruits, told her about his nurse, his parents… and as he unfurled before her, he noticed the way she settled in, uncoiling herself in the warmth of the fire. In those hours that passed, he began to believe that possibly, had she not been born to the position she had been, that she might love him too.

But it was impossible. She was royalty, and he was over a decade older than her.

“Tell me about your first love…” the smiling command caught him off guard and he felt a pang of grief, tempered by time and distance.

“There’s not much to tell. It was all pretty soppy – like most childhood flings. You know the sort of thing,” he was relieved to hear that his voice was even and calm, “I seem to remember you making eyes at some dandy before you left on your studies.”

“Oh, sweet, naive Kurt,” there was that shadow of mischief, dancing across her features again, “I used to flirt with him to make you jealous.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “You were a child. I very much doubt the thought of an old man like me even entered your head.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” her gaze was even.

“Her name was Ara…” he began slowly, “We grew up together, signed up at the same time. She died in a fight.”

“I’m so sorry,” she reached her hand out and laid it on his, pulling her feet up into her chair so she could better reach him.

“It’s fine, Greenblood,” he said, with a confidence he didn’t feel, “Honestly. Come on – your turn.”

She didn’t move her hand from his as she began her tale, shy and bashful. She spoke about both men and women, which surprised him a little – though he didn’t know why. The whole conversation had an air of _beginnings_ to it, each story a block in a foundation for which neither of them had a plan. Kurt leaned into it – the point was that what they were building, they were building together.

They eventually drifted to sleep, talking a lullaby to one another as moonlight flooded the sky outside – their conversation rising and falling in soporific waves.

Kurt woke at some point, the fire dead in the hearth. The room looked so cold and flat then. He searched for a blanket to tuck over her, and on finding none, he fetched his cloak. He _had_ planned to go back to his bunk, but again, he found he couldn’t leave her. She looked – despite her height and her strength – so vulnerable where she dozed. So he stoked the embers, and lay another log on the hearth. Then he sat down and watched her sleep until his own consciousness fell away, in the first untroubled rest he’d enjoyed since they landed on the island.

De Sardet stirred with an easy, earthy murmur, as light and the sounds of life began to seep around the door frame. Kurt cracked one eye open and looked at her, content and whole in her presence. She wasn’t aware of his being awake yet and stretched, cat like, into the folds of his cloak. And as she did so, she inhaled the scent of him on it, her face breaking into an enormous contented smile. He closed his eyes again so she didn’t know he’d seen her, then stirred by way of announcing he had woken.

“Morning,” she purred across at him.

“Hmm.” He found he couldn’t form words, but that was fine too. The space didn’t seem to demand any from him.

Above them they heard the sounds of life from the Legate’s room, and what should have been Kurt’s. De Sardet stood and stretched again, gently folding Kurt’s cloak and laying it carefully on the arm of his chair. She patted it once and nodded in thanks, before padding towards the servants’ quarters. Then she opened the door and called down for breakfast.

Vasco and Siora arrived downstairs, but if they were surprised to see him, they said nothing of it. The four of them sat and ate their meal in companionable silence, until the coffee pot was emptied and the legate cracked her shoulders back in a decisive action.

“Vasco and I have business at the port today,” De Sardet said with a nod to the former Naut, “I wondered if you might come with us, Kurt?”

“And me?” Siora asked, sounding slightly offended at not being asked to come along.

“You’re welcome to join us, of course,” Said the legate, then looked slightly embarrassed, “Though I was going to ask a favour… my cousin and former tutor would very much like to ask you some questions about your people. Nothing invasive! Just… so we do a better job of obeying island law.”

Siora seemed to assess the situation carefully before nodding, “I would be willing to.”

She left shortly after breakfast, escorted by De Sardet, in case the guards caused trouble again. There were a few moments of awkward pause after the legate left, where Vasco and Kurt struggled to think of common ground for a conversation. It was the Naut who managed to think of something first.

“So, you’ve known De Sardet since she was small?”

“I met her first when she was six, I think.”

“And you’ve been with her ever since?”

“Hardly. I saw her once a day for weapons training, not counting the years she was off touring with her mother, or learning… whatever the greenbloods learn at each other’s courts. Every so often I’d be asked to act as a body guard but we were never really… close. Why do you ask?” Kurt tried to keep his voice even, but he felt as though he’d been discovered.

“I just wondered what _you_ thought she was doing here. I can’t make it out – daughter of a princess, traipsing around like a common soldier… If it were me, and I’d been a noble…” there was a bitterness to his voice and Kurt frowned.

“What is it, that we’re doing at the docks?”

“I… I was sea-given. Means my birth family traded me to the Nauts as a babe. I want to know who those kin are. But, now that I’m officially not a Naut anymore,” he spat the fact out with a venom that made Kurt slightly uncomfortable, “I figure I’ve a right to know where I came from, in case they want me back…” He tried to finish with a laugh, but Kurt was familiar enough with pain that he could hear the rejection shining through the sailor’s tale.

De Sardet returned then, and sensing she had arrived at the end of a conversation, she fished around in one of the many trunks which lined the walls until she was sure the others had finished talking.

“Was just catching Kurt up on what we’re doing,” Vasco said, seemingly slightly uncomfortable. De Sardet nodded and in doing so, seemed to notice that she wasn’t wearing a hat. She had pulled some Naut uniforms from the chest and tossed one to Vasco.

“Go put that on, and while you’re up there, see if you can find me a tricorne.”


	23. Chapter 23

The sun was setting as the little group approached the tavern at the Guard Barracks. There were many such institutions in New Serene, but De Sardet had insisted they come here.

“My family is paying their wages,” she said easily, as though it were a feat everyone’s kin was capable of, “so I know no one’s going to start any fights if I accidentally get drunk and offend someone.”

“Do you plan on being offensively drunk?” Vasco had asked.

“I never plan on it, but Kurt will tell you that I’m hardly a picture of discipline when it comes to wine.”

Kurt smiled and shook his head, “She’s terrible - actually the worst drunk I’ve ever seen. She attacked me last time. It’s how I got his scar.” He gestured the mark on his face and she shoved him, playfully.

“That isn’t true. He tells people it was me, but the escort we had on our way to Theleme told me he got it when a practice dummy fell on him.”

“Right enough, though you’re hardly a _practice_ dummy,” he smirked, “And you didn’t fall… I pushed you over.” Vasco listened, amused at their banter. Kurt opened the door to the tavern and led them to one of the tables towards the back.

It had been a good day, all things considered. They’d found a lead on the Naut’s family by dressing up and sneaking into the back of a warehouse at the dockside. The whole thing had an air of hijinks to it, a deliciously stark contrast to the events of the previous few days.

As they’d walked away from the dock, peeling back layers of costume, Kurt had felt almost untouchable – the sweetness of success intoxicating. De Sardet had been giddy too, swaggering through the cobbled streets as she bowed theatrically with the tricorne to random passers-by.

“I would have made a handsome Naut,” she’d said at one point, on catching her own reflection in the windows of a closing general store.

“And she’s discovered us, at last!” Vasco had laughed, feigning horror, “It’s all about looking good.”

“And that’ll be why they tossed _you_ out then?” De Sardet had countered, winking.

“Careful not to cut yourself on that razor wit of yours, Legate,” Vasco had warned with a smirk as they’d continued on. It was a merry dance of words, light and easy between friends. The heist they’d just succeeded in was now a common bond, illicit and private and contained between the three of them.

Kurt revelled in it, delighting in being part of the sort of hair-brained schemes he’d missed out on due to his duties training the royal children.

Now, as they sat in the tavern, De Sardet turned to him, “Can I send messengers from here?”

Emboldened by their adventures, Kurt called for a Private he half recognised and informed him that he would be running an errand for the legate. Having sent the young man to invite Siora, De Sardet then tossed a purse of coins at Kurt, “This is your domain, Soldier. And I believe we’re in the market for something scaldingly alcoholic.”

“ _Scaldingly_? Are you sure? Wine was quite enough last time.”

“Afraid I’ll really hurt you this time?” he heard the challenge there - the _invitation_ \- and felt the hidden implication that if she beat him again, she’d have him dancing.

“Terrified, m’lady. Terrified,” he mocked and snatched the purse from the table, crossing to the bar.

By the time he returned with a bottle of something strong and unpleasant, Vasco and De Sardet were laughing at something he was not privy to, and he felt the familiar spike of exclusion.

“Kurt!” The legate smiled up at him, “I was just recounting the time my cousin got himself stuck on the battlements.”

“Ah yes. I wasn’t there that day, but I heard about it. You were very brave, as I recall,” he took a long gulp from the bottle and offered it to Vasco who took a similarly large swig.

“Not that incident,” then as an aside to the Naut, “Though that _was_ good.”

“There should never be more than one ‘stuck on the battlements’ incident in one family,” Kurt grumbled. He’d quite forgotten the second event until she mentioned it, but true enough, Constantin had been drunk and had decided to declare to the whole of the city, that his ‘sweet cousin’ should succeed him to the throne were anything to happen to him.

“He couldn’t see the irony of it,” De Sardet smiled, “Risking himself to name his second in a principality he didn’t rule. We had to carry him down between us.”

“We did,” Kurt smiled, “I’m glad his friends thought to fetch you and not his father.”

“I think it was a matter of self-preservation – I can’t imagine my uncle looking too kindly on their goading him to climb up there again in the first place. I know I was always thoroughly chastised when we did anything untoward.”

“I was under the impression you were a well behaved child,” Kurt said, offering her the bottle. She took it, had a tiny sip of the liquid inside, and pulled a face. Then, sensing the eyes of her companions on her, she inhaled through her nose and swallowed a not insignificant quantity of liquor. She coughed and pushed the bottle at Kurt again.

“Scaldingly alcoholic, indeed…. I was good at not getting caught. On the rare occasions I did, it was generally for something truly idiotic.”

“Like what?” Vasco pressed.

She flushed, “Well, I might not have beaten him like he continues to imply, but I did get Kurt into rather a lot of trouble once.”

They resketched the night he’d almost lost his posting – when she’d stopped the carriage and insisted they duel. He found that the process was another verbal dance – a back and forth of details and insight, De Sardet leading some verses as he led others.

And somewhere along the retelling, he realised that his feelings for her now changed nothing of what had been – what he felt for the woman before him was entirely different from what he’d felt for the adolescent girl then. Neither set of emotions was more or less valuable than the other – they were simply… different. And that was fine. There was no reconciliation needed because the past was a concrete thing – untouchable and unchangeable.

His conscience felt lighter, and he silently drank to his newfound ease before passing the bottle on.

Siora arrived soon afterwards and the stories continued, increasingly drunken accounts of capers they had witnessed or been party to. They deep in the second bottle as the tavern began to empty and the staff began to sweep the floor.

“I should go to bed,” Kurt murmured, reluctantly, “Since I’m already here.”

“No!” Siora objected, slightly too loudly. She lowered her voice and gestured them all to come closer, conspiratorially, “We should do another disguise, since I missed the first one! Vasco – you and Kurt swap clothes! Then Vasco can sleep here and it’ll really confuse the others come the morning!”

“Or get me in trouble,” Vasco countered, swaying slightly.

“But it won’t… because… you’ll be Kurt. And you can tell them what to do.”

“If I’m Kurt, can’t I just… come home?”

“No! You’re a _Coin Guard_ ,” she said, nodding sagely. Kurt was vaguely aware of a ludicrous plan materialising around him but felt no need to put an end to it. He’d been privy to madder schemes, thought up by Constantin or other guards, and had long ago learned that they would either run their rather harmless course, or blink back out of existence when something else caught the attention of the participants. Still, he resolved not to drink any more, in case things got out of hand, as they occasionally did.

“Swap clothes!” De Sardet repeated with a cackle, and Kurt became aware, in that after-the-fact way brought on by too much alcohol, that both the legate and Siora were dragging him outside and attempting to undress him. Vasco, meanwhile, walked easily along behind, unashamedly shedding clothing.

They swapped body armour, as Siora insisted. They stood in a tight circle, snickering at their genius in subterfuge, when Vasco began a wheedling motion that the legate and Siora swap attire too. This seemed to take little persuasion – the legate removing her coat in one simple, fluid motion - and led to the island native perfectly mimicking De Sardet’s walk to many raucous howls of laughter from the other three.

Then something glinted in Vasco’s eyes – mischief, trouble, mirth… a combination of all three. Striding with shoulders wide, he crossed to Siora and wrapped an arm around her waist, tipping her backwards into a swoon.

“Your excellency!” he said, doing his best to copy Kurt’s accent, “What would you have me do _to_ you… _at_ you… I mean, for you!”

Kurt was suddenly and absolutely sober. He watched, horror stricken as Siora replied, giggling,

“Mind my ridiculous cousin!”

Kurt flicked his eyes to the legate and found her bent double in laughter, “Oh you silly fools,” she sang, “You _must_ know by now that Kurt won’t ever address me as _Excellency_.”

“Greenblood,” Vasco amended, still trying to mimic Kurt’s voice “Come… _train_ with me.”

“Alright,” Kurt heard himself say, “I think we’ve all had a bit much to drink tonight. I’m going to bed.”

And yet he stood there, frozen to the spot. He wanted to go, to witness no more of this peculiar pantomime, but he didn’t want to let the others walk the legate home in the state they were in. Loud, obviously moneyed, armed… it was an invitation to bandits. He cursed himself for joining in their revelry earlier – even if _he_ were to take her home, his skill would be impeded by the amount he’d had to drink.

The legate seemed to have come to the same conclusion and he watched her fix her gaze on the middle distance, trying her best to force her eyes to focus.

“Kurt’s right,” she said, sounding remarkably clear-headed for someone who had – moments before – swapped clothes with an acquaintance, “Let’s go back. This way.”

She pointed down the street and they set off at an ambling, sideways sort of pace. Siora and Vasco laughed at the head of the little entourage, continuing their make-believe as Kurt and De Sardet.

“Pay them no heed,” the legate said softly, coming up alongside Kurt and hooking her arm through his, “And I haven’t had nearly as much as you all seem to think. What did you buy? It was dreadful!”

“How did you manage to avoid drinking it?”

“After a certain point in proceedings, you all stopped paying any attention to me, so I just held onto the bottle for a good while before passing it on,” she shrugged, easily, “I am the tiniest bit tipsy, but fresh air is helping. I have to say, I rather like Siora’s coat.”

Kurt stopped and took a step back from her, looking her up and down before stating simply, “You look like you were born to this place.”

“I rather feel like I was. I know it’s been… hectic, since we got here, but I don’t regret a second of it,” she caught his thoughtful frown, “Do you?”

“No. Not for a second,” he said and was surprised he meant it. She beamed across at him and resumed her place at his side, arm tucked in his

“Do you think they’re drunk enough to let us sleep upstairs tonight, without it causing too much of a furore?”

Kurt stared ahead to where Vasco and Siora were discussing – rather heatedly – whether or not guns were ‘cheating’. “I think if we sit them before the fire, they won’t notice a thing and we can hijack the bedrooms.”

De Sardet leaned across then and kissed his cheek – softly, suddenly, all too briefly. Then she ran ahead, knocking Vasco’s hat off as she overtook him in her dash across the cobbles. Kurt laughed aloud at the childishness of it – uncharacteristic and welcome.

Then he raised his hand to his cheek and kept it there for far longer than he should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to lighten the mood a bit, and... ^^this is apparently what my brain defaulted to...
> 
> Sorry? I think? Maybe not sorry?


	24. Chapter 24

She had gone to San Matteus without him.

“ _Please_ ,” she’d said, “If you were worried enough to abandon me for Constantin’s safety _before_ there was something sinister going on amongst the guards, then it’s even more important that _you_ stay with him now.”

He couldn’t fault her logic – couldn’t argue his way out it this time. To do anything other than what she said would be to confess all he felt, and he wasn’t about to do that. He was going to have to remain with the governor until he could find someone as good as Reiner to guard De Sardet’s cousin.

When he’d braced himself for taking care of Constantin, Kurt had expected to preside over the now almost obligatory hide-and-seek amongst the taverns, whoring, gambling… the usual things Constantin got up to under his father’s gaze, but the young governor was subdued. He did his work well enough, though Kurt would often see him gazing out of the window with vacant eyes.

He had managed to find someone to relieve him for chunks of day and night, and he used this time to sleep intermittently, using the rest of his hours to search for someone to replace him. He had finally settled on a young woman who went by the name of ‘Rip’, when a messenger appeared, announcing that the legate was returning soon, and state rooms should be prepared for visiting dignitaries at the palace.

Kurt found himself restless, aimless, as he waited for her. What he had seen as Constantin’s willingness to buckle down and work, he now saw as lethargy as the world slowed to a crawl around him. He set about changing the guard roster so he wouldn’t appear on duty for Constantin.

Which was when he noticed that Rip’s name wasn’t there.

It took a _lot_ of digging, a lot of bribery, and a lot of bloody noses, but he eventually found out where she’d gone.

*~*~*

Kurt waited for De Sardet in the sitting room at her little house – if the messenger was to be believed, and nothing had befallen the party on their travels, she should be home soon. The servants weren’t especially keen on the arrangement, but as the legate had introduced him as an official resident, they accepted that he would remain there for the time being.

He paced a lot, set up a little worktable by the stairs, and tinkered aimlessly with the weapons he found stashed throughout the boxes. But he remained agitated, irritable. He got the strange impression that the housekeeper hated him less because of it, which made him pricklier still.

At length, in the twilight shadows, he heard a key turn in the lock, and watched as a dishevelled, tired, woman dragged her feet through the portal and stood for a long moment, simply drinking in the moment of quiet and stillness that coming home afforded her.

He felt dreadful then, about to bring what he was upon her. He desperately wanted to be swallowed into the floorboards so that he could vanish without intruding on her rest. But this… this _was_ important.

“Greenblood…” he croaked. She didn’t jump, so she must have seen him there as she entered. She looked across at him, her face having mostly healed now.

“Kurt,” she nodded, with a tired, fond smile, “The steward at the palace said I’d find you here.”

She peeled off her cloak and hung it by the door, sitting in the chair and unlacing her boots.

“I found the camp. Where Reiner was… trained,” he tried to temper his tone to her mood, to fit his words around the way she was feeling, but he heard the venom in his voice nevertheless and noted the hardness in her eyes as she looked up.

“Then we go there,” she began refastening her boots.

“I don’t mean-“

“I do. We can’t afford to lose more good people to something like this. And if we get there sooner, maybe we can save someone who would otherwise have been lost.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, aeons worth of conversations passing between their gaze.

“At least eat something first,” Kurt growled. She sighed, nodded, and watched as he called for the kitchen staff without taking his gaze from her. They remained, locked like that, until the housekeeper appeared. It was as though her presence broke a spell, and time seemed to crash back in around Kurt and the legate.

“Some coffee, please, and something hot and greasy to eat,” De Sardet delivered the instruction without baulking, but Kurt couldn’t help noticing the way her cheeks shone at the indulgence.

“Bread, and bacon, ma’am?”

“And sausage… and any mushrooms you might have to fry. And onion. And tomatoes.”

“We have no tomatoes, and only dried mushrooms, ma’am.”

“Dried or not, I’d very much like to eat them,” she said with a smile.

The housekeeper went about her task then and the strange, frozen stillness returned to the room.

“How… how was San Matteus?” Kurt asked in an effort to keep time fluid.

“It was not uneventful. I seem to have acquired a new friend… who isn’t so new, as it transpires.” She sounded bitter, slightly.

“Greenblood?”

“Hm?”

“You seem… troubled.”

She sighed – an exhausted breath that heralded surrender, “He knew my mother, apparently. His name is Petrus – a priest.”

“Isn’t… I don’t mean to…” Kurt floundered slightly, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say.

“You’re right,” she said, her tone carefully bland, “My third name is Petra.”

Kurt made sure his face was equally bland, “Do you think-”

“I don’t know what I think… besides _I have too many names_ ,” the ghost of a smile, “I _am_ impressed you remembered more than one of them, though.”

The door opened and the housekeeper brought them their food. Kurt watched De Sardet devour what was there with a mixture of adoration and revulsion. She ate as though she hadn’t in days - grabbing at shreds of uncut meat and pushing them into her neat little mouth with joyful relish. She was messy, her fingers dripping with fats and juices. Kurt had seen her eat at the tables of kings – delicate and tidy – but here, with him, she was honest and corporeal.

He picked at his own food, conscious of himself, suddenly.

“Why do you greenbloods have so many names?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

“Lots of people say it’s so we can give one to each lover and never get found out,” she smirked as he felt his face contort, “Personally, I make a point of never bedding anyone that can’t list all seven.”

Kurt coughed, incredulously, and she nodded to his plate, “Are you going to finish that?”

He shook his head – too startled by her bluntness to talk – and she took his plate, mopping at the grease which haunted it with what remained of his slab of bread. When she was finished, she wiped her hands on her breeches and blushed when she noticed he’d seen her. She stood then, brushing off her jacket and patting her hair to make sure it was all in place. She seemed to shrug at it, as though it was unsatisfactory but she didn’t have the energy to deal with it now.

“Have you packed?” she asked him.

He patted his pack by the door and she nodded, crossing to the kitchen again and calling for various supplies to be brought up to her for their trip.

“Where… is the camp?” she asked, softly, “How much food are we likely to need?”

She crossed to the little work-station he’d fashioned and spread out a map, scanning for place names and stabbing her finger at the village he’d mentioned. She adjusted her instructions to the kitchen accordingly then began to talk him through their route, tracing the path with her nail. He was aware that he was close to her, felt his skin beginning to prickle at her proximity. When she turned to look at him, her forehead grazed his chin and they laughed, awkward and clumsy.

“Constance Ilaine Petra Elizabeth Susanne Agnes Gretchen,” he said it like a mantra – a rosary – and it was as though she stopped breathing. Time froze again and it was as though her skin was magnetic. He inched closer to her, his mouth barely a hair from hers. He fought it, with everything he had, trying to break free from her traction. He saw her close her eyes, part her lips…

He turned his head and stepped back. When he had centred himself within his own skin again, he dared to glance at her and felt his heart break at the hurt on her face.

“Kurt,” she whispered, moving towards him, reaching out. He took another step back.

“It’s not right, Greenblood. I just… I can’t…” he wasn’t sure he’d spoken loudly enough for her to hear, but she looked as though he’d slapped her.

“I’m…” her shoulders fell and she resumed the carefully rehearsed part she played for everyone else. Kurt felt as if he died a little inside, “I’m sorry, Kurt. I shouldn’t have taken advantage. I know that this is going to be… difficult.”

She flicked her eyes to the map when she said ‘this’, and the reality of what he was about to do came crashing around him. He felt as though he was choking in that moment – a mess of unspent desire and unwanted futures pressing in on his bones from all sides.

“I’ll ask for Siora to come with us,” De Sardet was saying, brisk and sensible, “I’m sure she’ll help carry some of the supplies. Do you have space for some food in your pack?”

“Greenblood,” he tried, hearing the wheedling plea in his voice. He wanted her to understand, to know how he felt, without compromising her position. Her face had hardened when she looked up at him, and there was an edge to her voice that he’d never heard before.

“He wasn’t my father. The man my mother married, I mean - I’ve no idea about the _priest_ ,” she almost spat the word, “They think I don’t know, but I saw them change the paintings of De Sardet to match my own face. One day, he’d be smiling down at me, and the next he’d be different – the twinkle gone from his eye. It was like his likeness knew they were deleting him. It’s ridiculous – I never met him, but I loved him. I loved the stories they told of him, and the way he was always smiling in all the rooms of the house. It made it seem… friendly. I began to feel sorry for him, and eventually I just felt guilty that his erasure had been done for my supposed benefit.”

Kurt stared, unsure of what he was supposed to say.

“I’d sort of settled on a romantic tale – to explain where I come from. I spent hours imagining who my father might have been, and what wonderful things he might have promised my mother. Or sometimes, De Sardet was the hero, stealing my mother from an earlier match. I knew it was all nonsense, of course, but it was comforting nonsense and that was enough.”

There was a creak of the door, then packs of dried meats, wrapped cheeses, crackers and apples were laid on the table by the housekeeper. She retreated from the room with her head down and the look on the legate’s face told Kurt that she knew her staff had heard. Defiant, chin high, she continued.

“Since we arrived here though, I feel as though… I feel as though it was all a lie. There’s something in the earth here. Something that speaks to the very core of me. Siora says she’s bonded to the island and that’s why there’s a mark on her face. Perhaps I’m bonded too. Perhaps I belong here – was always supposed to come here.”

She locked her eyes with his and in a clear, unwavering voice, she said, “Don’t you dare put me on a pedestal, Kurt. Don’t you dare – for one moment – think I’m better than you. I’m a bastard at best, a changeling…” she teased at the collar of her shirt, eyes on his with lips moist, and he saw how her skin glistened and blushed, beneath the cotton, “You can see what I want. The rest is up to you.”

Agitated, she began to sling things into her bag. He almost laughed when he noticed she left the heavy things for him – out of spite, he was sure, rather than through any pretence at inability or weakness, or opportunity to force chivalry from him. That defiance, that fire…

He checked himself. Whatever she said about her origins – whatever she said she wanted – she remained his employer, and he was but a coin guard.

In protest to her rude, hasty packing, he lay his own share in his pack with quiet, slow reverence. His movements became something of a meditation and he found comfort in the way their wills clashed – a comforting reminder of their earlier relationship.

His fingers grazed the message he’d received at the barracks, and for a moment he considered opening it. But if it had been important, they’d have followed up by now, and with where they were going, he didn’t want any more on his mind.

By the time they’d completed their preparations both he and the legate had reached a reluctant, unspoken truce. It was better this way, Kurt thought, suddenly. All that needed to be said had been said. All that remained was to move on, to forget… then things would return to usual.

“I prefer Gretchen,” she said as she closed the door behind them, “Just so you know. I was called Constance ‘for Constantine’, presumably Petra for the priest… the other names all belong to various dead relatives. Gretchen was the only one I could never place so I claimed it as mine.

“Gretchen?”

“Gretchen.” She confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, and yet... so far. Sorry Kurt! Not today!


	25. Chapter 25

There was silence that night, around the fire. It was an uncomfortable quiet – harrowed and hollow, the events of the day having stripped out all the camaraderie between them. It seemed to have become something of a game of chicken – each one of them seemingly waiting for another to be the first to sleep.

Kurt’s eyes were fixed on the priest. There was nothing of De Sardet in him – no sweet, delicate features, no crinkling lines of mirth around his eyes. He doubted very much that the man had sired her, but he couldn’t turn his mind away from that name. _Petrus. Petra_. Too much of a coincidence.

Of course – some deeper part of his subconscious argued – he was only obsessing over the priest so he could avoid thinking about where they’d been… what they’d seen in the camp.

Kurt’s mind tried to slip away from the things Wilhem had said – water off a duck’s back, as the old saying went – but he could neither focus on nor forget what the recruit had been through. What _he_ had been through, and the fact that De Sardet now knew. He felt ashamed, _monstrous_ … even lower in comparison to her than he had been before. He should have been stronger – fought back against it like Wilhem did, like Siegline would have done… but he didn’t. He’d been weak. Unworthy.

He stared at the fire and a thread of resistance sang through him – the words of his captain, the day he’d been taken to see Constantin and De Sardet for the first time.

“Your training was… regrettable. Other recruits grew bitter as a result. You… just seemed to care more about who came after. You've always shown patience with the younger recruits.”

_And look where that had got him._

He poked the fire with a stick and was aware of all the eyes which flicked in his direction, they were wondering, waiting.

He dared a glance at the legate, who was pointedly looking at a thin, palm-sized tome. It looked as though she was reading a slim volume of notes about island language, but he could make out the dog-eared edge of the letter she kept hidden in her pocket – the one she’d been reading on the boat.

She’d stood up for him, before the rest of the guards. Put herself between him and the others and used his words against them. The pride and the humility he felt at it almost choked him. He wanted to thank her, to talk to her about what it meant, but there weren’t words for that sort of thing.

“Your excellency?” he heard the title slip his lips before he realised what he’d said and De Sardet’s face snapped in his direction. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in an expression he hadn’t seen before. He felt his own jaw fall, surprised at himself.

“Kurt?” she breathed.

“A word?” he nodded away from the group and she rose to her feet.

They stepped away from the fire, into the night. Kurt could practically feel the ears of the others, straining for their conversation, but the legate led them a little way down the path and into a small nook within the rocks.

“ _Excellency_?” It was that same breathy voice he’d heard the other night when she’d asked him to stay with her – the same aching, mischievous tone which invited contradiction yet somehow refused it all at once.

“I… what you did for me back there…”

She grabbed the front of his shirt then and pushed him against the rock face, kissing him. It was passionate – hungry – and he returned it, reluctant at first, but melting into it with a moan that rose from his ribs.

She pulled back, stroking his cheeks tenderly and peppering his scars with kisses.

“This… still isn’t right,” he growled. She silenced him with her lips on his. Gently, tenderly, he pushed her away, “Don’t…”

She drew a breath through her nose, seemed to harden herself, then nod. She took his hand though, positioned her body close, alongside his as she pulled them back to lean against the rock.

“I’m sorry,” she started, and he made to quiet her but she spoke over him, “Not about the kiss. I don’t regret that at all…” the impish smile was back, and he found it hurt him to look at it. She was so very perfect, and she’d kissed _him_ … He felt simultaneously blessed and cursed, unable to look at that face which was so far from his station it was almost laughable that he was standing there with her. He turned away from her, and it felt like turning away from the sun – a relief, but colder. He squeezed her hand, staring into the dark.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened today. It was…”

“A shit show,” he murmered.

“That’s one way of putting it,” she smiled into the night and he could imagine the shape of her face in the darkness, hearing her bitter mirth in her words, “I’m glad we could save Wilhem, though.”

“I’m going to recommend him to Constantin,” Kurt said, then felt his stomach drop to his feet, his thoughts finally solidifying, “Greenblood – I need to go and check something in my pack.”

“What is it?” He felt the colour draining from his face as he looked at her. He remembered the note they’d stumbled on in Rolf’s office – the list of recruits sent into the ranks of the nobility. He remembered the marks on the neck of the lady in the carriage, imagined Rolf’s hands on the legate’s neck… He remembered Sieglinde’s words;

“There’s a pattern in who’s getting the notes. They’re going to high ranks in important houses. The Mother Cardinal sort of important houses.”

And who was better placed than he was in the household of the Governor of New Serene.

“Kurt?” she said, a slight tremor to her voice, “What is it?”

All he wanted to say vied for the opportunity – too many sentence trying to escape his lips like too many people crowding through a door. None escaped, so he cupped her perfect face in his hands, kissed her with all the love and pain he felt, and then he ran.

If he ran all night – if he could just reach Sieglinde by the morning… perhaps he could keep them all safe.

He heard De Sardet calling after him – heard _Gretchen_ calling after him – but he pushed her voice from his mind. Even as his fingers ached at his side to bury themselves in her hair again, he pulled away.

Because if he didn’t – if he was too late – she’d walk back into the city, and straight into a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! 
> 
> Events here are diverging from those in game, slightly. I think De Sardet and Kurt go to see Sieglinde together (it's been months since I played, so I might be wrong), but I wanted to set up the Coup a little differently.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you'll forgive the liberties I've taken. 
> 
> Chapters might be slightly rarer - we're in lockdown again, and it's the holidays, so I've got my kids home and not so much time for writing. I'll do my best though - this is a lovely escape for me.


	26. Chapter 26

Kurt sat in the basement, aside from the others cursing himself. Across the way, De Sardet glared at him. Her face was thunderous – clouded with betrayal and anger.

“Greenblood,” he tried again, but she stood, pretending she hadn’t heard him. He watched her work her way through those they’d managed to bring to the cellar, offering comfort – a kind hand on De Courcillon’s arm, another on the small of Siora’s back, a lullaby of words to Constantin.

Kurt deserved ignoring, of course. He’d ignored _her_ as she’d called after him in the night. It still hurt though, watching her lavish tender affections on the others whilst all the while she was so cold to him.

_But isn’t this what you wanted?_ Sneered a voice in his head, _Didn’t you want to be nothing to her? Isn’t this what’s best?_

Kurt felt his bile rise. He knew that this _was_ best for her, but he hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did now that he wasn’t the one in control of the distance between them.

_But you were never really in control, were you? You never could just leave her alone – a moth to a flame._

It was all painfully true. The knowledge of this being the best course of action for both of them was very different from the reality of it. He felt hollow, soulless, sick.

He noticed that she flicked her eyes at him for a moment and his stomach flipped with hope, dread, anticipation, but she said nothing and carried on murmuring to Constantin.

Above them, they heard a cry as the battle between men loyal to the Congregation, and those loyal to Torsten raged. The ghost of the shout lingered on the air between those hiding, and all conversation stopped in reverence to let the yell pass from existence.

“I should be out there,” Constantin said at length, “This is all my fault.”

“Shut up,” De Sardet snarled back, though her face crumpled slightly and Kurt suspected she hadn’t meant it with such venom. Her shoulders were high around her ears and the veneer of calm she always wore so well seemed to be slipping. It was too much for one person to carry, all this worry. And yet, who else was there but her.

On seeing Constantin’s hurt expression, De Sardet’s face softened slightly, “This isn’t your fault, Constantin. Not at all. People have tried to topple empires for as long as there have been empires to topple, only to build their own dynasties to be overthrown in turn. This isn’t your doing – this is simply… history. It’s just bad luck that we happen to have found ourselves in the middle of it.”

She turned to the rest of the room then, “I need to go out and make sure the Lady Morange is safe. I need to send messengers to the other cities.”

She reminded him of Sieglinde then – a powerhouse of practicality and common sense.

“I’ll come,” Kurt said, standing, “If anyone should be out there, it should be me.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to decide something that he couldn’t possibly fathom.

“Fine. Any other volunteers?” Vasco, Siora, and Petrus all stepped forward, but De Sardet shook her head at the priest, “I’m not ready to deal with _you_ yet. Siora? Will you stay with my cousin?”

Siora nodded to the legate, then smiled weakly at Constantin. Finally, De Sardet turned back to Kurt.

“A word?”

He nodded, dumbly, and followed her to a relatively private space behind some barrels.

“You’ve got some bloody nerve,” she growled, barely above a whisper. Kurt remained silent, not knowing what to say, “You leave me in the middle of the woods, without a word, and the next I see of you is in my cousin’s audience chamber, trying to prevent a coup!”

“I know, I’m s-“

“You’re sorry? It’s not good enough,” her voice was beginning to lose its quiet menace, notes of rage creeping into her words. She took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the strength of all she felt, “I’m not a child, Kurt. And I was never _your_ child. It’s not your job to protect me!”

Kurt laughed, wryly, “That is _literally_ my job. You _pay me_ to guard you.”

“Not my point.”

“And what is? That I should have told you where I was going? What I thought was happening? Sure, you’re right. I should have done,” he could hear his own voice rising now, and fought to keep it down, “But I _thought I was keeping you safe_.”

She was silent for a long moment before looking up at him, still clearly angry, but calm now and measured, “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen. Did you know that?”

He felt his stomach sink and he felt slightly sick at the idea of it.

“I suppose that means ‘no’,” her smile was humourless, “I didn’t realise that’s what it was at the time – in fact, I only figured it out on the boat over here, during the storm. But it happened that night I made you fight me. Everyone else presumed things of me – that I was no longer _valuable_ if I was ‘sullied’… their words… or that I’d been taken advantage of, or that some other thing out with my control had happened. But not you. You just read the situation for what it was, accepted me for who _I_ was and reacted with honesty and calm, and respect. You didn’t treat me like some delicate flower – like some prize to be coveted, put on a pedestal…”

She stopped, the anger seeping into her words again, “I told you the other night not to put me on a pedestal. I told you that I was no more than you. But you haven’t listened. I can’t _do my job without all the information_ and you withheld that from me. Such a damned proud warrior,” she sneered, “Too proud to admit how capable I am.”

He felt the accusation in his bones, but at the same time, he felt the hypocrisy of her statement and Kurt was – for all he felt and all they’d been through – still Kurt.

“You’re hardly one to talk! You’re stood here, telling me off for putting you on a pedestal while at the same time, you’re holding me to the impossible standards of an adolescent girl, infatuated with her teacher. Do you even know _me_? Or have you just slapped my face on whatever fantasy your younger self cooked up?”

She recoiled from him as if his words had been a blow. He felt simultaneously justified and stricken at the pain on her face. There was a long, steady silence between them for a moment, until she said, “Fine. You’re right. But I’m too cross to talk about it now.”

She turned to go, to ready her weapons.

“Greenblood,” he called after her, unsure what he wanted to say, but knowing he didn’t want things to end there. She ignored him.

“Gretchen!” he tried.

“I don’t think she wants to speak to you just now,” Siora said quietly with a slight smile as she came alongside him, “Though _I’m_ impressed you’ve been trying to learn our language.”

He looked at her, askance, bewildered, “Eh?”

“Greenblood. You’ve almost got the pronunciation right, but it’s more like Grai-tian, rather than Gretchen.”

“But…” realisation dawned, “Gretchen is her name…”

“I know. I thought that’s why you call her Greenblood?”

“It’s… I mean, it’s technically an insult, but-“ Kurt’s head was swimming. Siora sighed.

“Grai means _green,_ and Tian means _blood_ – the two together, _Graitian_ is literally ‘greenblood’, but more than that, it’s how we refer to the land’s spirit – the force which flows through us and through the woods and waters. It is a great honour to be named for it. Far from an insult.”

He was silent for so long that Siora gave up trying to talk to him and moved away again.

Kurt watched De Sardet go about strapping weapons to her body, resolute and calm on the surface. But he knew her – knew the way she fidgeted in her own skin when she was uncomfortable – and he saw it now in how she fastened and unfastened her belt buckle in an effort to get it to sit right, and how she kept swapping her cape from shoulder to shoulder, altering the way the fabric fell.

_I’ve loved you since I was fourteen_.

He let the words sink in. They made him simultaneously uncomfortable, and humbled, and… sad. Sad that she’d wasted her youth on him, sad that he hadn’t seen it before, sad that this, _this_ , was where it had led them.

No more.

If they survived this, Kurt promised himself he would…

_What_? What _are you going to do, Kurt? Bed the legate of the Congregation of Merchants?_ His own subconscious sneered at him, but he felt that thread of strength through himself again, and promptly told himself to shut the hell up. He fought down a smile when he said ‘shut up’ in De Sardet’s voice.

She called for him and Vasco then, giving Kurt a sharp nod and the Naut captain a long, grateful stare. Vasco clapped her shoulder reassuringly and she turned to address those in the basement.

“We’re going to get word to our allies, find the lady Morange, and see if we can put a stop to this madness,” she sounded confident, looked dashing even, but even the infatuated Kurt could hear how ludicrous the whole thing sounded. There were only three of them… and though he’d been able to warn Sieglinde before Torsten had arrived, he had no idea how much she’d been able to do to turn the tide in their favour.

Constantin stood then – shaky on his feet and pale. He walked towards the legate and reached out a hand, pleading.

“Please, sweet cousin, you don’t need to do this.”

“Why break with tradition?” she said with as much brightness as she could muster, “Frankly, I don’t know what I would do with my time if I wasn’t rescuing you. Think of it as gainful employment for me.”

Her tone was merry, but her smile didn’t touch her eyes.

“Be careful,” he said, finally. She nodded, then opened the door. Kurt suspected that it was easier for her to face armed men than it was to face the feelings of anyone else in that room.

*~*~*

The intimacy of the dance they’d shared on that moonlit hill had haunted Kurt, but it was nothing compared to the way they fought now. A lifetime of crossing swords, and critiquing one another’s moves to find a weakness meant that through the bloodied streets of New Serene, they could anticipate when to intervene for one another, and when to push their own strengths. They worked in symbiosis – a steady waltz set to the rhythm of Vasco’s guns.

But there were only three of them, and beautiful though their deadly dance was, they were slowing – a gradual _rallentando_.

They took shelter in an alleyway, crouched beneath a window, and assessed the injuries they sported.

“They’ve fired fewer shots than I expected,” Vasco said, poking a finger experimentally into a graze in his arm.

“I… might be able to explain that,” Kurt murmured, “I was here… before you got back… and I have access to their weapons. I wet their powder.”

De Sardet nodded, “Good work. Any other good news?”

“Major Sieglinde knew about the attack in advance – I tipped her off, so hopefully she’s managed to gather a group of loyal guards and is making good use of them.”

“Mmm,” De Sardet grunted in a noise that was half acknowledgement and half pain. She removed her jacket to reveal a spreading stain over her shoulder.

“When did you get that?” Vasco asked.

“That last one got me,” she grunted, “It’s not deep, but it hurts like hell.”

She took out a knife and tore at the stitching to her shirt. Kurt winced despite himself – all the young guard recruits sewed their own clothes in the barracks, and he knew first hand just how long those seams took.

“The privilege of wealth,” he muttered, “Must be nice to have enough shirts to tear.”

He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them, but she took them for what they were, a friendly tease – the sort of thing he’d have stung her with in the training ring. She flashed him a grin that was wolfishly pretty, then winced at the movement from turning to look at him.

“Shirts double as a bandage – that’s why you always need a clean one. Or have you forgotten everything you taught me?” she quipped, then proceeded to fold the dismantled sleeve into a pad, save for a length of linen long enough to wrap around her armpit and chest. This, she slit lengthways and used to tie a knot so the cut wouldn’t run. When she’d done that, she took each half of the strip in opposite directions around her body, and brought it back to tie and hold the pad in place.

“Neatly done,” Vasco observed, impressed, “I’ll remember that.”

“Hope you don’t need it,” she smiled at him, through gritted teeth, then said, “What now?”

“Morange is safe and the lieutenants have been dealt with,” Kurt said, trying not to look at the darkening centre of her makeshift bandage. Almost as if in response, De Sardet pulled her coat on again, wincing as she did so, “All that remains is Torsten…”

“Then we go get him,” De Sardet growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a well over a week of a few snatched sentences every day, so it's likely a bit poop and incoherent. It definitely falls short of what I wanted it to do but I'm keen to keep going because want to finish writing this - I have Other Ideas *cough* DA:O *cough*.
> 
> My intention, when I originally sat down to hammer this out, was to show that we hold our lovers to impossibly high standards sometimes, and that sometimes when we love people, we treat them in ways which aren't necessarily conducive to that - despite our best intentions. I've tried to write a respectful relationship between Kurt and De Sardet - one in which the power dynamic of student/teacher and/or the age gap has been addressed - and the idea here was to show that conflict can and does arise, even in inherently respectful partnerships like those which grow from a place of friendship and trust. 
> 
> I would absolutely love to hear any thoughts you might have on this one - it's possibly been the hardest part of this fic to write so far and I hope I've done the game (and my various imaginings) justice.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unusually long chapter for me. Hopefully not too long, though!
> 
> References to wounds and stitches. Some blood.

It was midnight before the legate returned. Her face was grey, and blank, as she entered the small living room. Kurt watched her from the chair by the fire. She did none of the usual things – didn’t remove her cape to hang nearly – proudly – by the door, didn’t peel off her boots and stand them to attention at the side of the fire. She simply entered, sat, and stared.

Kurt had seen her like this before, to an extent. After she’d defeated the creature at the docks in Serene, she’d been in shock. But this seemed… deeper. Like something at her very core had shattered.

“Hey,” he cooed, gently, “Hey…”

She didn’t look up. He stood, crossed to where she sat and knelt at her feet. It felt like a reversal of what had happened on the doorstep weeks earlier – she had tried to bring him back to himself with her proximity, waiting until he was ready to talk about what had happened. So he was patient, and he waited, and when she said nothing for a long while, he placed his hand on her knee and waited a little longer.

Eventually, Kurt’s feet began to spike with numbness, having been pressed beneath him. He shifted his weight, and De Sardet looked up and croaked,

“I don’t suppose you had the kitchens make some tea?”

He smiled and stood, flexing his ankles as he did so. He opened the door to shout down to the kitchen, but something told him that a raised voice was the last thing the legate needed to hear. Gingerly, he picked his way down the staircase to find the housekeeper tidying the last of the day’s detritus away. She shot him a suspicious look, but said nothing.

“Her excellency would like some tea,” Kurt said. The housekeeper sniffed.

“It’ll take a while.”

He nodded, “That’s fine. And…” he scanned the room, “If you’ve anything… stronger… I’m sure that wouldn’t go amiss either.”

The housekeeper’s frown deepened and Kurt felt his body prickle in anticipation of what was coming.

“You planning something, boy?” The way she said ‘something’ set Kurt on edge, but he managed to fight down his discomfort at the implication.

“It might have escaped your attention, but your lady prevented a coup today. She saved the city. The opposition had an _army_ , and she had only two men, _but she did it_. And now she’s tired, and shocked, and might be in need of a little something to take the edge off.” Kurt heard how each of his words were clipped and short. He’d been aiming for commanding-yet-compassionate – a balance he had tried to use when teaching the younger recruits – but he was simply too tired. The housekeeper sneered at him.

“Bring something to eat too,” he went on – not because he thought the legate would be especially hungry, but because he wanted to wipe the smirk from the woman’s face, “Something that’ll keep if she’s not ready to eat yet.”

He made his way back up the stairs and noticed that De Sardet had managed to remove one of her boots. Progress, of a sort. Encouraging.

“Tea’s coming,” he said and returned to where he had been sat by her feet. She took him being there as some sort of signal that she should resume her fight with her footwear and started to tug at her laces with clumsy, trembling fingers.

“Can I… help?” Kurt asked, softly. She nodded and he applied his attention to her shoes.

It was the most strangely intimate, private thing he had ever done for anyone.

When he had finished, he squeezed her foot in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and then put her boot beside the other one. She smiled sheepishly in thanks.

“Today can’t have been easy, Greenblood.”

He thought about when they’d returned to the palace – exhausted, cut and spent, but triumphant. De Sardet had insisted on helping Constantin to his room. Kurt had offered to carry the governor, as had Vasco and Siora, but the legate had refused.

“He’s my kin,” she’d said, with a strange melancholy pride, “It’s my job.”

They’d let her get on with it, Vasco choosing to return to friends at the docks to drink himself into a stupor, whilst Kurt had offered Siora his room at the little house, saying he would head to the barracks.

But De Sardet had told him no. She’d told him to wait for her at the house, and depleted though he was, he’d done as he was told.

“The coup was… not _welcome_ , exactly, but not unwelcome,” she said at last, her voice weak and flat. He frowned at that and he could see the machinations on her brow as she tried to form an answer to his unasked question, “I think that makes me a horrible person, but… so much has happened since you ran off.”

He felt the accusation in her words, though there was no anger to her tone. He was also acutely aware that they had argued – wounded one another. He wanted to hear what had happened, to perhaps ease her discomfort if it was in his power to do so, but wasn’t sure where to start. He found himself taking a deep breath, and saying with a huge degree of awkwardness,

“I don’t think you’re a horrible person. I watched you, trying to keep everyone calm. That was… noble of you. I heard you talking to Constantin about empires-“

“Don’t,” she pleaded, suddenly embarrassed, “I was just parroting a passage from a book I had to memorise when we were growing up... I say ‘we’ – obviously Constantin didn’t do it.”

“You sounded convincing,” he ventured to smile up at her then, and she looked at him with such tenderness in that moment that his breath caught in his throat.

“Well, I hope De Courcillon didn’t hear it. I don’t think I’d ever live it down if he did. Every single day I asked him what real-world use we could possibly have for the things he taught us… Now I know,” she was trying desperately for levity, but he could tell it was a mask. Her forced laugh didn’t touch her eyes and her smile was no more than a brief flicker.

“Greenblood,” he began. Then, feeling particularly humble, “Your excellency…”

She smiled warmly at that, indulgent and beautiful in a dishevelled sort of way – simultaneously older than her years and entirely innocent. Kurt drew himself up from his heels and onto his knees. His eyes drew level with hers and he could see a fine film of dirt and sweat and tears across the crest of her cheekbones. Kurt brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the pad of his finger softly grazing her skin.

And of course, the housekeeper arrived with the tea then.

Kurt sank back down with an inaudible sigh, and the housekeeper glared at him – something which did not go unnoticed by the legate. A frown flicked across her tired face but she seemed to decide that such questions could wait.

In addition to the tea, a bottle of fiery, malt spirit sat on the tray, as did a selection of nuts and olives, the morning’s unused bread – with butter – for the toasting fork by the fire, and a little bowl of speckled, hard-boiled eggs.

“Thank you,” De Sardet said, and reached straight for the bottle of malt, uncorking it and drinking it neat.

“My lady,” the housekeeper said with a frown, then went to withdraw. De Sardet called her back and asked for a large bowl of hot water, some very clean linens, and her finest silk thread.

“Turns out she knew my mother,” De Sardet said after she’d gone, “I think she likes to think she’s keeping me respectable.”

There was a slight hiccough to her voice as she said this, which did not escape Kurt.

“You… alright?”

“No,” she pouted. Kurt speared some bread and balanced the fork precariously by the fire, then set to peeling an egg. The work was fiddly, but it made the quiet bearable whilst he waited for De Sardet to talk. She gulped down another swig of malt and drew her knees up to her chest. She reached out to hug them in close to her body, but winced at the pain in her shoulder.

“Can I see?” Kurt asked, mashing the smooth, shell-less egg onto the toast before adding in a spoonful of butter to the mess he was making. De Sardet uncurled in the chair and shed her coat with a great deal of effort. The wound had clearly bled since she had bandaged it, the deep, wine colour of her blood having seeped into the lining of her coat.

“First, you need to eat this,” Kurt pushed the toast into her hand. She made a face but he stared at her with one eyebrow raised, down the barrel of his nose until she began to pick at the crusts. The taste of the sweet bread seemed to open floodgates of hunger, and the rest of the food vanished in a heartbeat. Kurt then poured her some tea and pressed the vessel into the hand which wasn’t covered in butter grease and toast crumbs, “Next, drink this.”

She took a sip and he knelt before her again, this time with the simple purpose of looking at her wound. The task was a familiar one, almost comforting in how free of subtext it was.

He unfastened her hasty knot and removed the makeshift bandage. She’d been right – it wasn’t a deep wound, but it was one which would open every time she raised her arm, which made it dangerous and sore. She winced as he pressed his fingers into the swelling around the cut.

“More tea,” he said, “it’ll help.”

“It’s full of sugar,” she complained.

“Exactly. Between that and the malt, you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

She frowned and sipped from the cup, letting him assess the damage.

“I won’t be. Better, that is. Not any time soon.”

“Oh?” he heard her words, but didn’t really take on the meaning of them until she continued.

“You remember I said that I didn’t think my mother’s husband was my father? It’s so much worse than that…”

Kurt stopped what he was doing and tried to imagine what might be worse. His mind went to dark places.

The housekeeper arrived then with the requested items. She sat them next to Kurt and turned to the legate, “I can stay, if you like? My stitching is neat, and you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve sewn up.”

There was a tenderness to her tone with Kurt had never heard before. There was a maternal warmth to it – inviting and kind. He worried for a brief moment that De Sardet would agree to it, but the legate laid a hand on the housekeeper’s, squeezed for a moment, and then said, “Thank you, but I’m in safe hands. Kurt’s a fine physician. This isn’t the first time he’s sewn me up.”

De Sardet gestured a long, thin scar which ran the length of her forearm and Kurt half-coughed, half-laughed at the sudden memory of it.

She’d been spending time in the palace gardens with Constantin and his friends – though the term ‘friend’ was only loosely applicable. The older children had been daring one another to climb the enormous tree at the centre of the courtyard. When De Sardet had said she could manage, they had teased her – _mercilessly_ , as she’d told it – until she left them alone. Then, whilst they’d been busy insulting one another, daring one another to have a go, De Sardet had scaled it – quietly, quickly, efficiently.

When they had looked up to find her perched at the very top, there had been panic amongst the other children – how would she get down? Who would have to go and ask for help? But she’d managed to descend without intervention, an act of silent triumph.

She’d found Kurt afterwards, sporting a nasty gash on her arm from where she’d slipped on a branch. He’d wanted to take her to a physician, but she’d been too proud to admit to anyone else that she’d hurt herself. Her ego had been too badly bruised by the teasing as it was. And she had been terrified of disappointing her mother.

Kurt had made small, neat stitches along her arm. She’d been silent the whole while, biting down hard on a rag she’d brought for that very purpose. She hadn’t turned away either – she’d watched every single stitch. Then he’d shown her how to dress the wound – stressing how important clean linen was – and she’d spent the rest of the season wearing long gloves, or tight sleeves to better hide the cut and protect her pride. It was a triumph in subterfuge.

When summer finally did roll around again and Constantin noticed her scar, she had brushed it off as something that had happened in training.

She’d been… what? Fifteen then?

_I’ve loved you since I was fourteen. Did you know that?_

Kurt felt his face flush and he tried hard to focus on the housekeeper leaving. Once she’d gone, he took a long gulp of the malt to clear his head then set to his task.

The wound had been made with a sharp blade – something of a blessing which meant it should heal quickly, if they could keep the sides of it together. And the housekeeper _had_ brought the best silk thread. Kurt noticed she’d also brought a block of fresh beeswax, and a small pot of Yellowed Honey, and all his misgivings about her disintegrated – she’d been a wonderful appointment to the house.

De Sardet began unbuttoning her shirt then, stripping back to her stays and the minimal shift beneath them. Everything was covered in blood. He imagined she would reduce the shift to rags, but the stays were expensive, took a great deal of work to make… even her clothing would likely remain scarred by the events of the day.

“Uh…” Kurt began, trying desperately to find the right words, “I think I’m going to have to unlace your stays so that your skin sits right as I sew it. If I do it now, and then you take your stays off, the weight of your breasts might pull the thread too tight and the skin won’t heal right.”

His throat felt dry, but he managed to get through the entire sentence without croaking, or blushing. He took it as a win.

De Sardet nodded, then turned her back to him. He untied the knot that nestled in the small of her back and began to unwind the spiral of laces – a slow unwrapping.

Kurt wasn’t exactly inexperienced when it came to stays – he’d unlaced his share during his time in the guard. On one particularly lavish occasion, involving a wealthy merchant’s daughter, he’d cut the laces and presented her with a new set the following day. It had been a brash gesture which had drawn the ire of her previously undisclosed husband.

But this was different. This was…

 _Love_ , Sieglinde said in his head again. But this time, Kurt neither fought against the term nor felt ashamed of it. He leaned into it, and found a sense of calm in it, and let it wash over him. His fingers were suddenly steady and strong – gentle as they tapped against the legate’s back.

When his task was complete, he lay the stays down, folding them as neatly as the stiff, shapely fabric allowed. De Sardet turned back to him and took another long drink of the malt. Kurt wet some of the linen and pulled her shift down so that the neckline stretched over her shoulder, below the wound.

“So,” Kurt said, pressing the damp cloth to her bloodied skin “You said the coup wasn’t unwelcome?”

“It meant I didn’t have to think, for a time,” her voice trembled, “Everything I am is a lie, Kurt. Everything.”

He frowned, adjusting the way his weight sat on his knees. De Sardet reached behind herself and handed him a pillow, which he placed under his joints. It was a small act, but a thoughtful one, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“It’s not like you to be so dramatic,” he said. He’d washed enough of the rusty dry blood away to see the skin beneath. The wound was even cleaner than he’d thought it was and he felt a perverse sense of pride in the guard who’d sharpened their weapon before heading onto the field.

“It’s not _just_ my father who’s not my father,” she said, wincing as he scrubbed at the stubborn blood, “The princess isn’t even my mother.”

Somehow, though he never knew how, Kurt managed not to stall in his work.

“How is that… I mean…”

She took his hand to the mark on her face and pressed his fingers to the branches which patterned her skin.

“My parents lived here, on the island. They were bonded to it – like Siora. My father – my _real_ father – was killed and my mother dragged back to the Congregation. I was born on board a Naut vessel and the princess adopted me. Petrus, _the priest_ ,” she spat the word, “He knew. All this time, he knew.”

Kurt traced the path of what seemed to be the main branch of her mark, drawing one finger along her jawline and down her slim, muscular throat. She shivered at the sensation and he gently kissed the place where the branch ended. She moaned, no more than a whisper, but he heard it – felt it.

He resumed his work, and she composed herself.

“I went to tell Constantin,” and here her voice truly faltered, “But I arrived as the doctors were leaving… he has the sickness – the malichor.”

The quiet of him, the distractedness, tiredness…

“Oh, Greenblood…” Kurt breathed, voice laden with sorrow for her.

“Hurry up and stitch me back together so I can cry,” she said.

He nodded, dragging the thread through the beeswax to strengthen it before passing it through the eye of the needle. Then he took a clean, silver spoon, and scooped the Yellowed Honey into the chasm of her flesh, to cleanse it. Then he started to sew. He made the stitches as small as he dared to, careful not to pull the silk too tight, lest her flesh pucker. She drank throughout, though the malt never seemed to touch her.

And when he was done – true to her word – she dissolved into tears.

Kurt wrapped his arms around her and held her until her body stopped trembling. He knew he should move away, but found he couldn’t. He breathed in the scent of her hair, drank in the feel of her strong body, encased as it was in his. He felt her tears seeping through his own clothing to his flesh beneath and didn’t care at all.

“Kurt,” she said, softly, “I want you.”

He felt like his heart stopped, “I want you too, but not yet. I’m not ready.”

She sniffed, loudly, and pulled herself from his arms. Then she wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded, some of her usual pragmatism returning.

“Thank you for being honest,” she managed. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed at her tears.

“Gretchen…” he growled, then stopped, remembering the conversation from the cellar, “Wait. Did… Siora tell you what that means?”

She shook her head.

“You should ask her. You wouldn’t believe it, coming from me.”

She frowned, “I take it that’s the name my actual mother gave me?”

“It’s… an island name.”

She looked ready to say something, but sighed and shook her head, “I’ll ask Siora. Though I have to say, if I keep finding reasons I can’t use a name, even _I’m_ eventually going to run out. I can’t use Petra, or Constance…. And now potentially Gretchen.”

He gestured her wound again, “May I?”

She let the neck of her shift fall, revealing the mound of her shoulder. It was a red and angry gash, but clean enough, and Kurt felt satisfaction in his work.

“You should sleep,” he said.

She nodded, “You can take my bed, if you like?”

“You need it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t be in it.”

He shook his head, “Soon, Greenblood. But not now. I’ve things I should help with, at the barracks.”

He offered his hand, and she took it, feigning the propriety he knew others saw in her. He helped her to her feet and let her up the stairs. In the bedroom, he lifted back the covers as she shed her breeches, then she slipped into the bed with a grateful sigh. Gently, reverently, he pulled the blankets up around her. He combed his fingers through her hair and removed the pins he could find, setting them aside on her night stand. Then he knelt at her side again, kissed her tenderly, and said,

“Your excellency.”

Then he left for the barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to take into account some of the things Androida said at the end of the last chapter - hopefully my playing around with the suggestions has improved things a bit.   
> Also, many thanks to Androida for the input <3
> 
> I did a (very minimal) amount of research into how wounds were dressed in years gone by. Stitches, in general, could apparently increase the risk of infection prior to around the 1860s when proper hygiene became common practise. I looked back to ancient Greece and Egypt, though, and found that honey and alcohol were often used to help with healing. I also read that in India, turmeric was made into a paste and applied to wounds - hence the Yellowed Honey the housekeeper brings. Hopefully you'll forgive the liberty I took with this :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mentions of Kurt's past - nothing graphic, but events are alluded to briefly.

“You look like shit,” Sieglinde said with as much interest as someone habitually commenting on the weather. Kurt ignored her.

“I couldn’t help but notice how many of your men were out of the city. Thank you.”

“Well, _someone_ sent a tip off that there were bandits planning something along one of the main trade routes. We couldn’t have that, could we?”

“Bandits?”

She shrugged, “You didn’t exactly give me much time to prepare. It was the best I could think of which such short notice. My men didn’t find any bandits, funnily enough.”

He pulled her into an enormous bear hug and as she withdrew, she punched the top of his arm.

“In all seriousness, Captain, what the hell are you doing here? You honestly look like a walking corpse.”

Again, he ignored her, “The prince has asked my opinion as to who he should put forward as a replacement for Torsten. So… I’m going to recommend you as commander. I just wanted to tell you in advance.”

“I don’t want to be commander, Kurt… I might have to actually do some real work,” had it been anyone else, he might have believed them. But Sieglinde was a great one for platitudes because _‘they’re what people want to hear – best to get them over with and you can get on with doing what you want_.

“Sieg…” his tone was quietly warning and she stopped shuffling her papers, rolling her eyes at his persistence.

“Fine. I would bloody love to be the commander,” He grinned and slapped her back, “Now will you go and get some sleep?”

“What about you?” He asked.

“I need to organise what we’re doing with the bodies, and whose kin we need to notify. When my second gets back from the ‘bandits’ I’ll put him on the job and take a break,” she sniffed and studied him, carefully, “You need to get back to your favourite duckling, my friend.”

Kurt felt his face colour and Sieglinde shook her head, “I bloody well hope she’s not this bashful or neither of you will ever get anywhere.”

“She’s resting,” Kurt said, carefully, “She took a sword to the shoulder.”

“Will it heal?”

“Should do.”

There was a paper in Sieglinde’s hand. She’d moved it from one side of the desk to the other and back again, and now she clutched it, as though assessing what she should do. When she noticed him looking at it, she sighed, “Nothing gets past you, does it? Fine. I was going to give you the night, but…”

She pushed the paper at him, chewing at her lip whilst he read it.

His stomach went ice cold and he looked up at her, “That bastard is still _out there_?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either, but I found those orders in amongst Torsten’s things. Clear is fucking crystal.”

 _Hermann_.

“Does… have you…” Kurt’s mind was working through scenarios for revenge, faster than his mouth was capable of moving.

“I haven’t told anyone but you that I’ve found that. And as far as I’m concerned, no one else needs to know.”

Kurt considered this for a moment, “If I go and kill him, will it compromise you in some way?”

She groaned, “You’ve got a really bad habit of making me get blunt when I don’t want to be, you know that, Kurt. I was going to wait, but… you know that when the reports of what happened here finally get back to the Continent, you’re not going to come out of all this too well? You did the right thing, so it’s doubtful they’d dismiss you. But you also disobeyed direct orders, so you just know they’re going to find a way of…. Making you quit?”

He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been so tied up in making sure that De Sardet didn’t walk back into the city, straight into a trap, that he’d totally neglected any duty he had to the guard…

… which was sort of Sieglinde’s point.

He sighed.

“I know,” she said, in response to his guttural complaint, “But even if I am the commander, I won’t be able to fix it for you. So. How about you find another form of employment? And what if, during the course of that other employment, you were to run into your old… colleague?”

Kurt nodded, “Do I have until the order comes back from the continent, or do you want me out of the books before then?”

“How about I write you out now, but we don’t make anything official until I get some post?”

He nodded again, “Gives me time to get you appointed as Commander, too, I suppose…”

She laughed, dry and humourless, “I suppose it does. Now piss off. You’ve given me enough of a headache for one evening. Back to your royal ducklings.”

Kurt made his way from Sieglinde’s office and towards his bunk. His mind was reeling, but he knew he should try to sleep while he could. He checked his pockets – there was still a small phial which had contained a sleeping draught, and there were still a few tiny droplets circling the bottom. When he made it to his bed, he rinsed the bottle with water and downed the diluted solution. It wouldn’t knock him out, but hopefully it would do something – even if it was a placebo.

His dreams were muddied, haunted things. For the most part, he was a child again, but occasionally, he played the role of Hermann, whilst his younger self wore De Sardet’s face.

*~*~*

There was so much to talk to the legate about the following day, but only one thing would crystallise in his mind – revenge.

As he approached the little house, tucked as it was in the shadow of the palace, Kurt noticed that the housekeeper stood beside the front door, smoking a pipe.

“You’re not _that_ big a one for propriety then,” he said, as he approached, “I thought servants were meant to smoke around back?”

She eyed him up and down, then broke into an unexpected grin, “I don’t give a rats arse about propriety. I know my lady don’t like the smell of smoke, so I’m not doing it outside her window at the back, or over her supper.”

“She still in then?”

The housekeeper looked at him as though he was mad, “You think I’d let her go anywhere with a cut like that? That thing opens again and the fever might kill her.”

“You know a lot about wounds for a housekeeper,” Kurt sniffed. She offered him her pipe in an uncharacteristic moment of camaraderie and he took it, taking a long draw before handing it back, blowing smoke rings across the street.

“I used to be a midwife, ‘afore the princess ‘ppointed me here.”

“What did you say your name was?” Kurt asked.

“Martha,” she replied.

Kurt held out his hand. She eyed it suspiciously before taking it, shaking it strongly and nodding at him.

“Thank you for your help last night,” he said, “Especially the beeswax. I wouldn’t have thought to ask but I always miss it.”

“Your stitches _were_ neat,” Martha said with a begrudging smile, then she took a final, long draw on her pipe and retreated back around the building to the small kitchen garden they kept.

Kurt watched her go, slightly dumbfounded by the whole exchange. Did this mean he was… accepted?

He pushed the thought from his mind and entered the little house, removing his cloak and boots and climbing the stairs. At De Sardet’s door he paused, drew a deep breath, then knocked.

It was Siora who opened the door to him, though it took him a moment to recognise her. She was dressed in one of De Sardet’s gowns, with various jewelled combs in her short hair.

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked. From across the room he heard a grunt, then out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shape of the legate, trying as best she could to fasten her own stays with just one hand.

“Constantin’s called for a ball to celebrate,” she huffed, chasing the cord with the tenacity of a dog after its own tail, “Well… Morange called it, because it’s the proper thing. But she did it in Constantin’s name, so naturally I’ll have to be there to deflect attention when he has to leave early.”

“You reckon you’ll get past me? Past Martha? You’re not going anywhere – a gash like that,” he said it before thinking of how it sounded – very much the controlling old Master.

“Nevermind my wound,” she muttered darkly, “I can’t even dress myself. All my clothes are too small across the shoulders. I can’t move in them.”

“I can’t move in them _anyway_!” Siora complained, “Why would anyone wear this of their own choosing?”

“Because look in the mirror, and tell me you’re not the prettiest thing you ever saw,” De Sardet smiled, indulgently, and Siora preened a little.

Kurt rolled his eyes and felt his temper begin to spike. He’d come here because Hermann needed to _die_. He’d come here, because he needed De Sardet to help him – he needed her integrity, her courage. He worried he would falter. He wanted nothing more than to cut the old man’s heart out and stand on it, but a sherd of him was still the scared little boy he had been, and he didn’t know which he hated more – that part of himself, or Hermann.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Kurt snapped, “You’re injured. You’ve not rested since we set off from the continent, and these silly, pretty frocks aren’t going to help anything.”

Siora cocked an eyebrow at him and he did his best to ignore her silent, wise stare.

De Sardet looked momentarily wounded. She was quiet for a long moment before she sighed and nodded.

“You’re right. The dresses are… _habitual_ , but we don’t need to do that here,” she brightened, “It’s a bit of a relief, actually. I never liked wearing them, just the effect they have on certain people.”

She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling, but he wasn’t in the mood for this. His face clearly gave him away because she flinched.

“So I can put my own clothes back on?” Siora asked, her voice hopeful.

“If you’d rather. Thank you for humouring me, though,” the legate smiled at her and then turned to Kurt. Her features were unreadable, “Come. We’ll leave Siora to change.”

They left the bed chamber for the room downstairs. As she passed the bed, De Sardet grabbed the blanket, then proceeded to cocoon herself in it on her chair by the fire, still in her shift as she was.

“What’s the matter?” She asked Kurt when they were alone, “You’re more than usually… gruff.”

He suspected that ‘gruff’ was the polite term for what she was thinking.

He wanted to tell her, to explain to her the significance of what Sieglinde had told him, but he found he couldn’t.

“You’re being a fool,” he snapped, “I spent last night sewing you up and you’re going to spend this evening dancing like a bloody harlot and open it all up again.”

She narrowed her eyes at him then said patiently, “I’m going to do my duty as Congregation legate, and act as the diplomatic arm of the governor. It’s my job.”

“And like I said before, it’s _my_ job to protect you.”

“This isn’t about me, Kurt,” the way she said it was dismissive – tired, and bored by the rhetoric.

“And what makes you say that?” he sneered.

“Because if it _was_ about me, you’d be gentle about it. Something happened when you went back to the barracks last night. What?”

He sighed, trying to pare down what he told her to the very bare minimum, “I need to go to San Matteus and kill someone. As soon as possible.”

“I’m listening…”

“He was responsible for the camp.”

“And you want to go and… dispose of him yourself? Doesn’t that put you in an awkward position with the guard?”

“I need to look for a new line of work anyway…” he mumbled. She eyed him through a heavy frown for longer than was comfortable.

“I’ll help you,” she said at length, “ _Of course_ I’ll help you. But I need to be there for Constantin first.”

He nodded, feeling suddenly relieved.

“Which means…” she said, slowly, her mischievous grin returning, “That we’d all better put our best formal armour on…”


	29. Chapter 29

Kurt, despite De Sardet’s best efforts to persuade him otherwise, attended the ball as her bodyguard.

“I can’t go… _with_ you,” He’d protested, vaguely gesturing with his arms. He hoped the motion would somehow convey all the churning things he felt, but the legate’s single cocked eyebrow told him he had been unsuccessful.

“You’re more infuriating than I will ever be able to word,” she’d countered, her tone flat with thinly veiled frustration. She hadn’t pushed the point though, which made Kurt’s stomach drop. After everything they’d been through, all that they’d said… after _that kiss_ … was she tired of waiting for him?

Waiting for him to do what exactly, anyway?

He’d played a thousand scenarios in his mind. They were childish things – fantasies where he saved her from an enemy, or where she saved him, or where they’d been alone on the boat in that storm and had slipped between the sheets in the milky half-light of the morning... He’d thought at length about all the things he could do _with_ her, _for_ her, _to_ her…

And yet, when actually confronted with her, he found himself floundering.

He stood and watched her now, from his place on the fringe of the room. She looked easy, natural, talking to De Courcillon. It was the first time he’d seen her relax all evening, the pair of them almost conspiratorial in their stance and gestures. Her eyes kept darting back to Constantin though, and where he sat on the governor’s throne.

Kurt had to admit that he was doing a wonderful job of keeping up appearances. Someone had applied cosmetics to his face, but he looked no different from the vast majority of people in the room – his ever-darkening veins hidden with the thick layer of white lead face paint which had been so popular on the continent. And it was true – usually Constantin would have been dancing, and drinking, but he’d played a solo on the violin from where he sat and this had caused enough of a stir that no one seemed to notice that he was a subdued version of himself.

De Sardet crossed to her cousin now, the light from the lamps sparkling on the jewels which adorned her hair and the golden chasing on her ceremonial armour. The plates were outdated – inherited from the man she’d been told was her father – but they were exquisitely designed and had been reshaped to fit her lithe frame. Kurt felt a swell of pride at the shape of the chest-piece – it had retained the flat front that Lord De Sardet had worn, rather than rise in two twin peaks at the legate’s breasts.

 _You might as well strap a target to your heart,_ Kurt had scoffed – mostly to himself – when various smiths had been asked to show the young legate designs for the plate’s reworking, _If the point of your enemy’s sword you anywhere on your chest, those fake tits are just going to funnel it to its mark._

De Sardet looked ethereal and golden as she crossed the floor and even if he’d wanted to look elsewhere, Kurt wouldn’t have been able to – no one could. The way her armour shone and her hair ornaments glistened transformed her into something other-worldly, celestial. The crowds parted when she moved, waves of silk and damask drifting aside to let her glide past. She knelt at Constantin’s side, whispered in his ear, and he beamed at her, indulgent and loving. He seemed to say something – something _teasing_ – and she shoved him gently, playfully.

He rose to shove her back and Kurt – knowing the things he knew – could see how she danced around the governor in such a way as to take his weight and lead him towards his chamber without it looking at all as though he were relying on her. The whole thing was so artfully done that for all the world, it looked like nothing more than a fraternal skirmish. 

And then she was gone from Kurt’s sight – into Constantin’s private chambers – and it felt as though the light in the room had gone out.

“She’s coming back, don’t worry…” Siora smiled from beside him. Kurt almost jumped but managed to compose himself.

“I don’t like that I can’t see what’s happening in there,” he mumbled, hoping he came across as the concerned guard he was supposed to be.

“Rip is in there, just like you planned,” she said with an easy shrug, then, “You know, I don’t think there’s a single person here tonight who doesn’t want to be you right now.”

“Eh?”

“Your job is to watch the most beautiful woman here,” Siora smiled, “And the others might not have seen how you look at her, but I have. And I’ve seen how she looks at you…”

“What’s your point?”

“She’s tired,” Siora began, glaring at Kurt as he opened his mouth to protest, “She lost her mother in coming here, and again when she learned the truth of who she was. She lost the family she was born to in the same breath that she found them. She stands now to lose her brother.”

“Cousin,” Kurt corrected.

“At this stage, the terms don’t matter – they define for themselves who they are to one another. And the love I see there, I’ve only ever known for my sister. If De Sardet loses him, who else is left? The old man,” she gestured De Courcillon, “And you.”

Kurt fixed his eyes on the door, willing the legate to come return to the gathering.

“If you don’t begin to give her the comfort she needs,” Siora went on, “Then someone else will…”

He turned to Siora then, suddenly acutely aware of what she was saying. He remembered the way the legate had looked at her, clad in the fine ball gowns of that afternoon. He remembered the ebb and flow of conversations before the fire in which De Sardet had confessed to loving more than one women during her adolescence. His face must have given him away and Siora shook her head with a smile.

“I like you, Kurt. And I know how much she loves you. But not everyone here wishes you and De Sardet the peaceful life that I do…” she clapped his shoulder and nodded to the door, “This island is my home – your rules don’t apply here. Go and dance with her – it’s all she wants.”

Kurt turned in time to see De Sardet slip from the door, composing herself as she did so. She did look tired – or at least, had done in the heartbeat he’d seen her before she’d reprised her usual role as legate. She paused, slipping a roll of parchment into her belt before looking around the room. Her eyes settled on him and she made her way across the floor.

Kurt remained rooted to the spot. This time, the other guests didn’t part for her. Her path seemed to snag on one after another. She made polite conversation with them each in turn but he could see her impatience – that uneasiness he’d come to notice more and more.

Siora’s words rang in his ears.

He moved towards her, waiting until she’d finished her conversation with her latest admirers before approaching.

Finally, at her side, he saw that she was even more radiant than she’d seemed earlier. There was a sheen to her cheeks, a glassy shine.

She was feverish.

“Kurt,” she smiled, measured and calm and gentle, “I’ve secured a wagon for San Matteus. You and I will leave tonight, take care of our business, and the others will meet us on our way home…”

“You need to rest,” he growled. She waved his concerns away with her thin, strong fingers and that imperious voice.

“I need some pomegranate, actually…” she crossed to a table where a huge array of fruit had been displayed. Kurt suspected it was there as a decoration as no one else had touched it. Still, she took two of the neat, blush spheres and handed them to him, their little crowns spiking at his palms like a physical manifestation of the legate’s social standing.

“Pomegranate? Really?”

“When I was small, I always thought the rubies on this comb looked like pomegranate seeds,” she said, gesturing one of the fine, sparkling objects which adorned her hair, “so my mother would make sure that every time she wore this comb, she would have pomegranate on the menu. It was like a secret code between us.”

She picked up a third fruit and tucked it into a pouch on her belt.

“There now… we can leave, if you’re ready,” she smiled at him but he shook his head. It felt like everyone in the room was watching him, burning disapproval through his armour and into his bones. It helped, strangely enough. Kurt felt his habitual need to defy rise within him and it made him bold.

“No, not yet. I promised you something… I said that on our safe arrival I’d dance with you…”

“You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

There was music playing – a dance already in progress. They could have joined the couples waiting at the side of the room, but she grasped his hands as soon as he’d finished speaking, as though afraid he’d change his mind.

And _there_ , right there in the middle of the room, she pulled him as close as their respective armours would allow and swayed against him.

“I spoke to De Courcillon,” she said softly, so that only he could hear. He felt clumsy with all eyes on him, but she didn’t make to do anything other than shuffle from side to side.

“Oh?”

“I said that I was going to commit some sort of terrible indiscretion with a member of my staff, and asked what was the lowest rank acceptable.”

“Bloody hell, Greenblood… you didn’t.”

“I did. I believe I said, ‘Sir De Courcillon, I’d like to bed my bodyguard. At which point would Constantin be required to relieve me of my duties?’” she was teasing him, her eyes bright and joyful. But there was something else there too – something beyond the secret she was holding. And Kurt suddenly realised that it was pain – pain in her shoulder, and feverish skin. He shifted his grip, made to stop their slow parody of a dance, but she gripped him tight and gave one firm shake of her head.

“You need to rest,” he said again.

“And I will. That’s why we’re taking a carriage,” she said, “But I have a gift for you first.”

“Aye?”

“Well, apparently bedding a member of the Coin Guard _is_ poor form,” her eyes twinkled, “But, there have been cases of ladies of rather high standing taking up with royal knights…”

Kurt said nothing, failing to see where she was going with this.

“There haven’t been any royal knights since Serene joined the Congregation of Merchants, but apparently the role does still exist. So now you’re the first in three generations,” she stopped and pulled out the bit of paper she’d stashed in her belt, handing it to him with a smug smile on her face.

Kurt stared blankly at it.

“Obviously I had to get my cousin to sign it, which is why I took such a long time putting him to bed,” the smile flickered, bitter-sweet, “but when I told him _why_ I wanted you promoting he was very keen to help…”

The seal was there, and Constantin’s signature. De Courcillon had allegedly witnessed the signing as his own mark footed the page.

“How did you _actually_ manage this?”

“Don’t make me tell you,” she pouted, “I rather prefer my story.”

He stared hard at her and she sighed, “Fine. It was actually Petrus who thought of it. He and Constantin and Courcillon met with Sieglinde earlier and she happened to mention that we would no longer be able to purchase your services via the Coin Guard. So Petrus came up with this. I merely asked that I was the one allowed to deliver the news.”

"You're talking to the priest again, then?"

She shrugged, but didn't disagree.

“I…don’t know what to say,” Kurt's eyes had locked on the part about a fixed pension for the rest of his life, and the fact that the prefix of ‘Sir’ would be added to his name without it demanding the rigorous training regime which came with gaining rank.

“You don’t have to say anything, Proud Warrior,” she teased. But her face was closing off again, “Just…”

Her voice trailed off and her eyelids flickered. She swayed a little to one side.

“Greenblood,” Kurt stepped forward and her eyes snapped open again. She steadied herself and with the same glorious artifice he’d seen earlier, she managed to make it look as if she’d had a little too much to drink and was struggling to hide it. The curious eyes around them seemed sated and De Sardet reached for Kurt’s arm, hooking hers through his.

Aloud, she said, “Come, Sir… I believe I’m too deep in my cups to be of any further use to my cousin. Do escort me home.”

To him she said, “Please look after me.”

"Always, Your Excellency. Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned a gratuitous ballroom scene with lots of innuendo and the sort of tense dances that Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet would be proud of ...
> 
> This is apparently what my brain and the characters came up with.... It's a bit of a mess, but I think it suits them, because they're messy too.


	30. Chapter 30

Kurt had all but carried the legate form the palace to her house. Her arm had remained hooked through his, but the further from prying eyes they drew, the more she leaned her weight against him, her steps growing uncharacteristically clumsy and slow.

Martha had been waiting for them at the door, exasperation plain on her face.

“I warned you, m’lady. I said to you this afternoon that if you exerted yourself this evening you’d end in a fever-“

“I know, Martha,” De Sardet’s voice was apologetic, “But he’s my kin – what else was I to do? Constantin needed me.”

Martha made her displeasure known in a series of grunts as she and Kurt helped to remove De Sardet’s ceremonial armour and various hair ornaments.

“I’ve fetched your nightclothes-“ Martha began, but De Sardet shook her head.

“Thank you, but I need the travelling bags.”

The room had fallen silent then and everyone but the legate froze. When things did begin to move again, Martha eyed Kurt with such cold fury that he began to suspect he should arm himself.

“Gretchen,” he cooed softly, “We don’t have to go now…”

“We do,” she asserted, “I’ll be fine. There’s a whole satchel full of elixirs I keep forgetting I have. I’m sure one of them will do _some_ sort of good…”

But she hadn’t sounded convinced. At that point, Kurt had begun to suspect that if the legate had looked away for more than a heartbeat, Martha would have made damned sure he wasn’t _able_ to go anywhere.

Sitting in the carriage as they were now, bumping their way towards San Matteus, he wondered if he’d ever be able to show himself to the housekeeper again... Meanwhile, apparently completely nonplussed by the entire exchange, De Sardet unscrewed one of the many phials that Petrus and Courcillon kept plying her with and sniffed at the opening.

“Kill or cure, I suppose,” she mumbled, then downed the contents in one. She shuddered, but whether it was from the taste of the substance or some other effect, Kurt couldn’t tell.

“Here,” he said gently, and tried to move so that she could lay with her head on his lap.

The benches of the carriage were heavily padded, but short and thin. De Sardet was too tall to lay easily on them without curling her legs to her chest, and then the seat wasn’t wide enough to hold her. After a few moments of fidgeting, Kurt moved across to the bench on the other side of the chamber and wedged himself into the corner, his back against the partition between themselves and the driver.

He swung one foot up onto the bench and beckoned the legate to come and sit between his legs. She did so, leaning her back against his body.

“Mmm…” she sighed and closed her eyes, finally at rest. Kurt could feel her soft cheek pressed against his and frowned, feeling how hot and clammy she was. He wanted to wet a cloth and lay it on her forehead to cool her, but to do so would have meant disturbing her slumber – what little of it she stood to have in a rocking carriage, anyway.

He felt her shoulders slowly relax against him, and her body melt into his. He could already feel the spikes of numbness creeping into the leg which lay along the carriage bench, but he resolved to stay still, to give her every chance to enjoy the sleep she so desperately needed.

They remained like that for a long while, the hour and the heat from her body causing Kurt to drift in and out of slumber himself.

At one point she woke, sitting bolt upright and calling desperately for him into the dark.

“Sshh…” he whispered softly, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She lay back down against him and sighed a deep murmur of relief, before falling back into her fitful slumber. Her cheek rested against his again and he felt a deep relief that it was cooler, less clammy. He pulled her in to him and stroked her hair, as much for his own comfort as for hers.

An hour or so later, as dawn began to seep through the curtains of the carriage door windows, De Sardet sat up and stretched. She glanced back at Kurt over her shoulder and a surprised little laugh bubbled from her lips,

“Hah! I’m still alive!”

He shoved her, a little harder than he’d meant to, “Bloody hell, Greenblood – you sound like that was a genuine concern!”

She flushed a little and tried to shrug off her earlier exclamation. “It hurt a lot more than I was trying to let on,” she muttered, “But at least now we know that the satchel full of potions are worth lugging around. Do you have those pomegranates?”

He ignored her attempt to change the subject and nodded to her shoulder, “Can I see?”

By way of an answer, she pulled at the neck of her chemise to reveal the cut below. Sure enough, the scar was still visible, but the wound was remarkably neat given how recent it was – the edges having closed into one pink ridge.

“It looks…” but his voice trailed off, and he felt relief choke his words. She would be fine – absolutely fine.

“It feels good,” she confirmed, “I should have thought to use one of those phials before the ball. I could have worn a pretty dress for you after all.”

“You didn’t need a dress to be pretty,” he said, before he could stop himself, “You outshone everyone else in that room.”

“That wasn’t me – that was all the gold!”

“Who else could have afforded all that, though?” She rolled her eyes at him and he smirked.

“I’d trade it all for one of those pomegranates you stashed for me.”

Suddenly, she seemed to remember the one she’d grabbed for herself. She withdrew it from her bag with the sort of reverence and pride reserved for trophies and jewels, then she pulled out her knife and split the shell.

Juice dripped from the flesh and onto her hands, her fingers sticky with the sweet liquid. Tenderly, almost reverently, she used those strong, nimble digits to fold the flesh of the fruit from its clothing. Clumsy from exhaustion, she worked too quickly, and the ruby seeds spilled out across her knee. She glanced up at Kurt, embarrassed slightly, but not too embarrassed to laugh at herself.

“You… uh…” he gestured her face and the layer of pomegranate juice freckles which shone in the early light.

She smeared the cuff of her doublet across her cheeks but missed some. Habitually, Kurt licked his thumb and scrubbed at the remaining marks. He brushed her lip gently as he moved his hand away and she kissed the pad of his digit. They stared at one another, almost startled by the exchange.

Then Kurt leaned over and kissed the place where the most juice remained. He moved back, just a hair, and licked his lips, tasting the sweet fruit on them. Tentatively, she reached up, spreading the soft liquid from her fingers onto the contours of his mouth. Then she kissed it off. Again, they stared at one another in a state of slight disbelief.

Kurt realised that his heart had all but stopped when she’d revealed her wound to him, but now – his lips almost on hers – he felt it begin to beat again, the relief of her recovery a very real, very corporeal delight.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he growled. He could feel her breath on his mouth, sweet from the fruit.

She moaned, barely a sound, but he felt it through her lips where they brushed oh-so-slightly on his.

He was dully aware of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the increase in the noise out with their carriage. He fought his senses though – he desperately wanted to remain in that place. Outside of that moment the reality of where they were and who was waiting for them was a sort of pain he didn’t want to revisit.

“I’ve been thinking…” she purred, as though reading his mind. She sounded breathless and as she spoke, her lips tickled his, “If we don’t want to implicate ourselves, we’re going to have to employ a third party…”

“I can’t ask you to make that kind of… investment,” he all but moaned himself as he said _investment_ – such a delicious word, all at the front of his mouth so that he kept brushing hers.

“I know,” and here she smiled, normally something he loved to see, but the expression teased her mouth away from his and he had to fight the desire to bite at her, and nibble her back to him, “but Petrus reminded me of a certain… authority… we could set to work.”

“The mad inquisition?” Kurt half-smiled, half grimaced. _Inquisition_ – another delicious word. A less delicious concept, though.

“I have a note from Petrus which should help… _convince_ our friend Aloysius…”

“That sly old fox…” Kurt caught the little gasp in De Sardet’s throat as he said _fox_ and he pushed her back against the wall of the carriage, teasing at her lower lip with his teeth.

“I think you misheard me, Your Excellency,” he growled, “I said _fox_ , not _fuck_.”

“Wishful thinking,” she grabbed at his collar and pulled him closer still, biting back at him, “But we’re here, _Sir_. The carriage has stopped moving…”

Kurt slumped backwards and thumped a fist against the carriage wall, forgetting himself. In response to the hammering, the driver rushed around to open the door and De Sardet laughed, loud and musical, fully herself again.

“Oh, sweet Captain,” she chuckled, “So eager to leave the carriage.”

She stood then with her usual grace and all but skipped from the vehicle. Kurt trudged after her, dragging the satchel of seemingly miraculous potions with him.

They would have much work to do finding Hermann, but it was just the two of them, and that prospect in and of itself filled Kurt with a hope he hadn’t felt in years.

 _Sir_ , she’d called him. A title that was truly his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... they're obviously going to Do It. Soon. Possibly in the next chapter.
> 
> I was thinking I could have the lead up as one chapter, then the sex itself as another. Then I would add a note at the end of the first/start of the second, basically saying 'look away if you don't want the graphic details, and rejoin us in the post after this'. 
> 
> Would that work for everyone?
> 
> I don't want to alienate anybody, but I also really want to write something a bit more intimate because... pay off. 
> 
> I would love to hear any thoughts. <3


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends. This is THAT chapter. 
> 
> I have suppressed my infantile giggling long enough to write a sex scene, which you will find below. 
> 
> For those who would rather give Kurt and De Sardet their privacy, you can leave at the point where the horizontal line appears and rejoin us for the next chapter. I'll make sure it makes sense without the smut. 
> 
> Some notes:  
> \- Prior to the sex scene, I've mentioned (in no more detail than the game) some of the abuse suffered by Kurt. I basically fudged the dialogue lines because Story, but I feel like a content warning might be prudent.  
> \- I tried to make the sex loving. It's not elaborate, or rough - mostly centred on gentle touch. Again, I wanted to let you know in case that impacted whether you chose to read it or not. 
> 
> Comments always welcome - I've only ever written rather chaste things about environmentalism until now so this is all new to me! I hope I did ok!

“How… should we proceed?” Kurt had asked, but De Sardet had shaken her head.

“No. This is your damage. I’m just here because you invited me… I’ll follow you on this one,” she had smiled at him – disarmingly earnest.

He’d been apprehensive at first, worried that the change in their dynamic would alter the way he felt somehow, but they had slipped back into their former roles with ease – he as the master and she as his ward. She followed at his side, observing quietly and without judgement while he threatened and cajoled and eventually captured Hermann.

The days after their arrival in San Matteus had been full and seemingly endless. They often slept in the sitting room as they did in New Serene, but not through a desire for closeness – simply because exhaustion claimed them. Kurt had woken numerous times beneath a blanket he didn’t fetch for himself, and if he woke in the night, he was sure to tuck De Sardet tightly into his cloak as he had before. The first night he’d woken before her, he had gone to fetch the heavy woollen rug she had used for him but she’d roused herself enough to pout at him, point to where his cloak had been hanging by the door and gone back to sleep. He’d smiled, and indulged her. There was something intimate in the action – an unspoken history which laying a blanket across her wouldn’t have encapsulated somehow.

The atmosphere was different now, of course – they remained exhausted, but there was a tension to the space which had previously cocooned them through the darkness.

Hermann would burn at dawn.

“Leave it,” De Sardet said after a particularly long spell of silence some time after midnight, impatience barely concealed in her tone. Kurt looked to his hand and found the fire poker. He flushed crimson, embarrassed at having failed to notice he’d been stirring the ashes for what must have been close to an hour. He nodded in concession, then stood, tossing another log into the embers. They sizzled slightly, a giggling of crackles and hisses mocking him.

“I can’t just sit around here, waiting,” he said.

“I had an invitation to the Lady Arielle’s Salon… I can fish that out if you like?” her tone was teasing, but not gently so. There was an underlying hardness to her words and Kurt found himself responding with an incredulous glower.

“Not in the mood for my jokes then,” she muttered, then flopped her head back, “Look, I don’t like waiting any more than you do, Kurt, but what else is there? We could take a walk to the docks? Fight off whatever drunken sailors inevitably try to rob us? Then what…?”

He sighed and threw himself back down in the chair beside her.

“I just need him to be dead. Now. I’ve waited too long for this. The anticipation feels like… itching.”

She frowned, considering him for a moment.

“What did he do to you?” her question was quiet and pure and it hung on the air like a note from struck glass, chiming.

“Same as Reiner. Only I survived,” then before he fully understood what he was doing he added, “And then some.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, “I mean, I’m happy to listen but if…”

“I want to,” he snapped, surprising even himself. She didn’t recoil – simply kept staring at him with her even gaze.

“When you’re ready,” she said and he nodded, getting up to poke the fire again. At this she raised an eyebrow and he groaned.

“Let’s take that walk… I don’t think there’ll be much of a poker left if we stay…”

He gathered their cloaks and draped hers gently around her shoulders. She flushed a little at the unexpected act of servitude, then kissed his cheek – chaste and brazen all at once.

“Sir,” she smirked and gestured the door.

“Your Excellency,” he said as she stepped past. They smirked at one another, the accident of their station unspoken, yet suddenly ridiculous to them.

“Look at us in our finery,” De Sardet sang with a smirk, again seeming to read his mind, “You, the first royal knight in years and me, masquerading as the daughter of a princess.”

“Keep your voice down,” Kurt scoffed, “you’ll get us caught.”

He bumped his shoulder playfully into hers, and she bumped his back. He felt giddy, the waves of delight at her presence countered by the angst of the morning, so that it felt like riding an emotional storm.

The further from the house they drew, the more sombre their mood became – the reality of the late hour seeping into their thoughts. They grew closer together automatically, Kurt’s hand never far from the hilt of his sword whilst De Sardet’s feet were light and quick on the cobbles.

They rounded a corner and here, their visibility improved. The buildings were long and smooth, flanking a wide square which held few hiding places for brigands. The pair relaxed a little and exchanged a bashful smile.

“I… “ the legate began, but floundered a little as she spoke, “Do you remember when we were in that inn, attached to the bath house? I was ill, and I’d lied about it…”

“I do.”

“I remember seeing marks on your back. For years, I thought that you were like me – that you had patterned skin you couldn’t explain,” he thought of the lines which criss-crossed the flesh over his spine, “It wasn’t until I saw a whipping when we were in the Bridge Alliance that I realised what those marks must mean. Was that…”

“That was Hermann.”

They were silent for a while, their footsteps the only conversation between them, “Those scars were so pale – so faded. You must have been very young.”

Kurt shrugged, not really knowing what to tell her. He felt the differences between them acutely at that moment. She remained – despite all she’d grown and all she’d seen – a decade his junior. And beyond that, she was still a green blood. He expected the realisation to hurt more, but he found that it didn’t – these discrepancies in their past were simply fact.

He thought of the moment in the Coin Guard tavern when he’d realised that the past was an unreachable place – a feeling fossilised, still there for him to see but petrified in stone. That’s all his history was – all hers was – a series of moments that could never be altered.

They reached the docks without issue and sat at the pier, their feet dangling above the ocean and kicking at nothing. The moon was high that night – almost full and invitingly round.

There was a peace to it – uneasy, but accepted.

“Did you get whipped often?” De Sardet asked, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d heard her speak.

“Hermann humiliated us whenever he could,” Kurt took a deep breath, tentative now, but determined not to carry the fossils of his past alone, “Occasionally, he came to visit at night… It wasn’t about… He just wanted us to feel ashamed.”

De Sardet’s face froze at that. But there was little of the patronising pity he’d expected. He did see a hot rage beneath the horror, but that spark of love was still there, and – if anything – burned brighter.

They both opened their mouths to talk at once, but she thought better of it. For once, he didn’t offer to wait for her. It had taken him too long to get to this point.

“It’s not something I like to think about. The bastard’s about to go up in smoke. Let my memories die with him,” Kurt said.

Across the water, the sky was streaked red – a slash of blood for the coming dawn. De Sardet followed Kurt’s gaze and jutted out her chin.

“Shall we take our places for the show?” she asked. He nodded.

“Aye. I want a front row seat. I want him to know I put him there.”

She grinned, lopsided and proud, but humourless, “As you wish, sir. Let’s go.”

*~*~*

They had stood in the square, almost alone in the dawn. The Inquisition was far from stupid – they knew to burn the famous Major when few people would see him. Kurt and De Sardet had positioned themselves within the veil of the acrid smoke, refusing the move from their position until the fire had burned the corpse of Kurt’s tormentor to nothing.

As the wind cleared the last of the heady smoulder from the square, Kurt caught sight of their shadows on the cobbles – equal in height and shape, hands clasped tight together, they looked like the start of a chain of paper dolls.

More people were milling around the square now and Kurt’s first instinct was to snap his hand back to his side, but he stopped himself. Standing there in the literal ashes of all that had hurt him, he found that the usual feelings of inadequacy had faded with the night. Kurt realised with an almost physical start that he had never cared about her rank in society – if he had, he’d have behaved like all the others, fawning around her as though she were some sort of hot-house flower to be cossetted on account of the accident of her birth. The discrepancy between their stations had simply been a mask for the shame he felt at what Hermann had done to him.

And now Hermann was gone, and he was holding onto the woman he loved, and who loved him back.

He looked across at her, her face grey with ash. Dark tracks traced the contours of her cheeks where the smoke had robbed her of tears. He reached across and gently tilted her face towards his.

Her eyes were brighter than anything he’d ever seen then – sparkling amidst the matt grey of the dust fused to her cheeks.

“Your Excellency,” he said, “Let’s go home.”

They turned from the embers of the great blaze and habitually, De Sardet went to draw her hand from his, but he gripped her fingers tight, bringing her dusty hand to his mouth and kissing each of her knuckles in turn as he led the way back to the residence. His lips left a surprised 'o' on each digit.

“Kurt? You seem… _determined_ …” she was grinning at him, tentatively.

“Do you still want me?”

“What?”

“After I stitched you up, you said you wanted me. I said I wasn’t ready. Do you… still want me?”

“You idiot. Do you have to ask?”

He chuckled at that, low and lusty.

“No, I don’t suppose I do.”

Neither spoke as they made their way through the streets of the waking town. If anyone who saw them thought ill of them for their filthy faces, no one said anything. Kurt suspected it was the purpose in the way they walked – stride matching stride across the cobbles and back to the little house. Their pace did not invite interruption.

One of the servants attended them as they entered the building. Kurt was keen to brush the young figure away but De Sardet’s mind was clearer,

“Please, bring your largest basin of hot water up to my chambers, and some rosehip oil.”

“Seed or fruit, m’lady?” the servant asked.

De Sardet flashed her wolfish grin and said through smiling lips, “Seed, please.”

Kurt caught the breathiness in the word and felt his heart beat faster. He began to tug at his cloak, his boots, frustratedly. In a strange reverse of the argument they’d had weeks earlier, his haste seemed to slow the legate to an exacting, measured crawl – each of her movements calculated to be as slow and restrained as possible.

He glared at her and she tilted her head to one side, mock innocence lighting her features with mischief – a coquettish gesture and one he was surprised made the impression it did.

The servant reappeared as De Sardet lay her cloak and heavy doublet carefully on the back of the chair. She nodded in thanks as the bowl was carried upstairs, followed by the oil. When the sitting room was empty of staff, she made her way up to the first floor, one painfully slow step at a time.

Kurt remembered watching her, back in New Serene as she ascended after her bath. His mind sketched in the lines of her skin, and memory traced the way the beads of water dripped down the insides of her taught, muscular thighs.

He remembered the strength of those thighs as they’d sparred after the battle.

He remembered holding her waist in the moonlight as they'd danced.

And then they reached the bedroom, and De Sardet closed the door. 

* * *

She padded across the floorboards and drew the shutters so only a small slit remained open, allowing the daylight to enter. Then she smiled at him over her shoulder, eyes low and lips teased into a coy smile.

She said nothing, but crossed back to where he stood at the door. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up to his face and traced a finger over his scars, down his jaw, and along his collar bone. Kurt stopped breathing, his eyes locked with hers.

Without breaking his gaze, her nimble fingers worked the buttons on his shirt and his breeches. With deft hands, she striped him bare and looked him over in silence, her eyes still on his. He knew he was covered in ash in all the places his clothes hadn’t protected – his hands and face were caked in the dust of his past, but dust it was now. And she was here to rub him clean.

For all the elegance and command in her movements, she was humble – _giving_. She pulled the basin of warm water to them and knelt at his feet, her perfect face tremblingly close to his crotch.

Still silent, still slow, she plunged a scrap of silk below the surface of the water and wrung it out, the beads of liquid pearling in the air as they dripped into the pool below. Then she rose onto her knees and wrapped the cloth around the smallest finger on his right hand, moving the fabric up and down his digit until the skin was pink and blushed. Then she cleaned each of the others in turn – a tender, languid act of love.

And when she was finished, she stood and brushed the ash from his cheeks and kissed it from his lashes. Then he reciprocated, stripping her of her crisp new chemise and the repaired, blood-stained stays. The wound on her shoulder remained angry, red, but it was part of their story and he loved it in that moment, kissing the row of stitches with which he’d marked her skin – her flesh changed at his hand, but lovingly so. _Restoratively so_.

She _had_ been his student, just as he had been Hermann’s – this was true, fossilised and unchanging like all his other memories. But the marks Kurt had left on his prodigy had been to heal, not destroy, and there lay the difference. _There_ lay Kurt’s power over his past. He had chosen love, and in doing so, he had ensured that love had chosen him.

She stood naked before him now, nipples proud and skin covered in a layer of goose-flesh. It was his turn to kneel, a display of gratitude, servitude, oath. He washed her hands in the water greyed by his past and somehow, she still came out clean.

When he had finished, they stood opposite one another, staring in something close to wonder. Then Kurt laughed at how ludicrous it all was – that this had taken them so long. He had always been hers and hers alone. And then she laughed too, rushing forward at him and knocking him back against the bed, kissing at the smiling creases by his eyes and biting at his grinning lips. He moved against her to pull the curtains of the bed around them, sheathing them in the artificial velvet darkness of their stolen morning.

She pulled the sheets up to the peaks of their shoulders and they laughed again at how cold the linen was, having not been laid in all night. She squirmed against him, trying to leech his warmth and he felt the thrill of the way her back arched against his stomach. Her hips began to swing a rhythm against his cock as she pulled his arms around her, one hand between her thighs and the other under her to cup her breast.

She moaned in pleasure, closing her eyes. He felt the vibrations of the sound through her ribs and his. He shifted his weight and tugged at the stiff bead of her nipple, marvelling at the way her body bucked with delight at his command.

The rest was instinct, fingers slipping into dark, swollen crevices and legs braced against bedposts. Movements honed in sparring, used to that inevitable end; a splitting of flesh. He worked the proud drop of her clit with his thumb until his other fingers felt her stiffen and pulse around his hand. And he drank in the surrender of it – his as well as hers. The world outside fell away and in that deep and private space, only they remained – drenched in their pleasure.

She recovered her wits and straddled him, the air around them warm and sweet now, insulated as they were by the bed’s curtains. He gasped as she consumed him - a contradiction of wet fire. Then she rose up, sitting back on her feet and working those strong, tireless thighs. He watched the arch of back, so fluid and perfect in the half light, and grabbed at her hips to better guide her rhythm. She kept her eyes on his the whole while – the most intimate, piercing thing about it all – and in the darkness of her pupils he found his satisfaction.

Desperate, sudden, he pushed her from him and let the fluid of his cock drip over his hand. They shared a heady grin; she nodded in thanks. Whatever future they had, it didn’t need the complications a potential bastard in her belly could bring.

She fetched the now cool water, a gasp of air entering that private chamber within the bed’s curtains. He cleaned himself, and she tossed the contents of the bowl out of the window and into the gutter. When she returned to the bed, she was carrying the little bottle of oil the servant had left.

Kurt raised an eyebrow.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s a gift,” she said, unusually bashful – particularly given the circumstances, “Lay on your front.”

He obeyed and felt the sharp cold of a liquid dripping onto his back. With a sound that was almost a purr, she climbed across him again, her thighs strong and heavy on his buttocks.

Gently, she ran her palms over his skin, sliding the oil into the tapestry of scars he wore. Her movements were easy, confident, but there was an almost ritual quality to the way her fingers danced across his shoulders – a reverence of his body which made his heart sing.

“When I came home bruised,” she said into the darkness, “Martha recommended rosehip seed oil against scarring. She said that if it was applied regularly, it could help lessen the appearance of even the oldest scars. She used to apply it to the women she treated as a midwife – on the stretchmarks.”

Another sharp drop of cold between his shoulder blades as the legate applied more of the tincture to massage in.

“If… if you’ll let me… I could rub some in every morning. If you like? I know it won’t ever remove the marks of what he did to you, but perhaps in time -”

“-they’ll fade.”

He lifted his hips and her with them, then turned to face her, pulling her down on top of him and wrapping himself around her. They pitched onto their sides and he held her, breathing in her hair and the scent of her and how perfectly imperfect she was.

“I’ll let you, Greenblood. I’ll let you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing, I was listening to some old playlists, and this chapter made me think of lines from "Love will come to you", by Poets of the Fall (who, for those interested, recorded as 'Old Gods of Asgard' for Alan Wake).
> 
> "Life doesn't run a clear course  
> It flows through from within  
> It's supposed to take you places and leave markings on your skin
> 
> And those marks are just a sign of something true  
> you witnessed in your time  
> Of something new, like the start of something fine
> 
> Like morning dew, love will come again to you
> 
> [...]
> 
> Hey, can you tell me who you are?  
> The colour of your dawn  
> When the gates are open from last night's revelry on the lawn  
> And when the sounds of laughter still echo in your dreams  
> The smoke screen disappears and nothing is what it seems
> 
> And your tears have been worthwhile  
> They got you through to a different place and time where all is new  
> To the start of something fine
> 
> Like morning dew your love will come again to you."
> 
> *Scuttles off to blush furiously at just how much she has invested in this romance*.


	32. Chapter 32

It was late in the afternoon when they finally emerged from the damask walls of the curtained bed. Sleeping sporadically through the rest of the morning, the day had worn into a breathy evening – sun-faded and breezy like familiar but clean linens. Kurt was tired and slightly disoriented by the irregular hours, but light and joyful for it. 

De Sardet had dressed slowly, luxuriously, and sat at the crack of the curtains brushing her long hair. When she had seen that Kurt was awake, she had smiled at him warmly, her skin sunkissed by the last light of the day as it spilled through the now-open shutters. He crossed to her on his knees, the mattress shifting perplexingly beneath his weight, and took the brush. He took up the fight with her tangles and she dissolved into a delighted sigh.

“Easy Greenblood,” he teased, “I’m an old man – you’ll wear me out.”

He kissed the nape of her neck and caught the rolling of her eyes and melancholy – but loving - smile, “You’re a _dirty_ old man, is what you are. I was just thinking of how my mother used to brush my hair.”

He felt a shift in the mood, but not an unpleasant one. He kept at his work, the process as calming and soothing for him as it evidently was for her.

When he was finished, he lay the brush aside and she stood, turning to softly kiss his forehead. After a stretch and pop of her shoulders, she began the long process of braiding her tresses into something manageable. He watched for a few moments, drinking in the beauty of her, then dressed.

Kurt took his time, wishing to somehow stay longer in that perfect place. But after a short time he was ready – as was she – and they faced one another.

“… What now?” he breathed. _Was it just for today? Or would she stay with him?_ She didn’t catch the nuance of his question – the plea for more of her – or if she did, she chose to ignore it.

“I rather fancy some stew from that tavern by the wharf,” his face betrayed his disappointment at the mundanity of her answer so she added, “The one with the kale in, and that fatty garlic sausage which dyes the broth red…”

“We can go for stew,” he said, tentatively, his words sounding like an echo of when he’d been her tutor. Old routines – he reminded himself. With the exception of that morning, they’d resorted to a previous pattern of interactions where she would ask him something and he would consent. Or not. The result was the same though – he would need to ask _her._

“I mean… _What now_? You’re everything I ever loved…”

She laughed then, playfully shoving at him, “What are you talking about? You think I’m done with you?” She grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him, that increasingly familiar mischief dancing in her eyes, “Do you honestly think I could even _imagine_ my life without you?”

He felt himself relax and nodded, “That’s… good to know.”

“ _Now_ can we go for stew?”

He laughed and offered his arm, which she took with something of a blush.

“For the record,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “I love you too.”

“I know – you said. In the basement.”

“In an argument. It’s… lesser, in anger, somehow.”

Kurt shrugged, but didn’t really know how to answer her. She didn’t seem to need a response though, and they made their way into the increasingly familiar streets of San Matteus.

“Where next, then? After stew, I mean,” he asked as they walked towards the sea. It felt to Kurt like seeing the city again for the first time, traversing those streets without the shames of his past shadowing him.

“I have a task to do for Burham which I’ve put off for far too long… Something about a missing expedition. I just… I couldn’t face the thought of finding more corpses.”

“When should we leave?”

“Tomorrow, first thing. Petrus will meet us on the road – he sent a messenger yesterday but I didn’t much think you were in the mood for news…”

Kurt frowned, “Can I ask… what made you trust him again?”

She shrugged, “I have little family left. I’d be a fool to alienate someone whose eyes sparkle when he calls me his child… even if it is only religious metaphor. You take what you can get, I suppose.”

“Did you tell your cousin of your… origins?” Kurt thought of Constantin’s reliance on De Sardet – the way he sought out her approval in all things. A dark corner of his mind wondered at whether or not the prince’s son would take a different sort of interest in the legate, if he knew they weren’t related and tried to squash that line of thinking.

“I did,” she smiled to herself, “He said it didn’t matter – that I’d always be his sweet cousin.”

“I’m glad,” Kurt said, and meant it.

They arrived at the tavern and settled themselves towards the back. De Sardet ordered their soup and a loaf of bread, and when it arrived, Kurt watched her devour it with a speed that was almost inhuman. Then she asked for more, visibly trying to savour the taste this time. It reminded him the bacon he’d seen her wolf her way through.

“How come you eat like that? I thought you had all sorts of tutors to teach you how to look like a lady” he teased her.

“Petty rebellion, mostly,” then she looked down, bashful, “and when I like something, I can’t get enough of it.”

Kurt gulped, visibly, and the legate laughed, flicking her eyes up to meet his. His mind flashed back to that morning in the bedroom and the way she’d stared at him then.

The exchange was enough to distract them both from the figure approaching the table. It was only as an elegantly arachnid hand set down on the wood that both Kurt and the legate snapped their faces up.

Instinctively, Kurt’s fingers reached for his weapon, but he needn’t have done so. The figure was apologetic in stature, and familiar, though for a second Kurt couldn’t place her. Then-

“Lady…”

“Saintere,” then she smiled, “Or it was. I suppose I can call myself Lady Jardine again now, if I so desire.”

De Sardet sat back, assessing Kurt’s conversation with the rather fetching noblewoman with what he read as a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He suddenly found himself flustered.

“Do you desire?… I mean… Your name. Should I call you Saintere or Jardine?”

“Call me grateful! Call me free! Your friend was as good as her word. I…” here it was their visitor’s turn to falter, “I saw the two of you at the burning yesterday and … it didn’t seem like the time to interrupt so I had one of my servants send for me when they saw you leave the house.”

“You had a servant sit out all day and wait for us?” Kurt wasn’t really sure what to make of that. Part of him felt deeply uncomfortable at the prospect.

“My residence is across the street. I couldn’t believe the coincidence. But that’s all by the by. I wondered if you would take something to your friend for me? A token of my thanks?”

“I would.”

She reached into a deep pocket and drew out a small pouch, pressing it into Kurt’s hand. He frowned at the size and weight of it.

“Something of my late husband’s. You probably shouldn’t look at it here, unless you’re keen on a fight…”

And with that she left. Kurt and De Sardet exchanged a glance.

As soon as Saintere exited the tavern, the legate snatched the pouch from Kurt and peered into it. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, mirroring the opening of the bag. She closed it and passed it back, nodding to it in a gesture which said ‘open it’.

Kurt did so and saw an enormous signet ring in gold, set with a huge ruby. He made a noise that was half laugh, half cough, yet entirely incredulous.

“What did your friend do to earn that?” De Sardet sounded impressed.

“Sieglinde…” he tried to search for a euphemism but gave up, “She killed her husband.”

The legate looked impressed, “You should probably get that back to her as soon as you can. That’s not exactly walking-around jewellery.”

Kurt felt a pang of anger. He suddenly knew the way the rest of the conversation was going to play out.

“We need to get that job done, though,” he tried, knowing full-well what she was going to reply.

“I’ll manage,” she said, “Honestly. The others said they’d meet me outside the city when we were done here…”

 _But I don’t want to leave you_. 

“What about me? I might need you to keep me safe,” he tried to sound as though he was joking, as if he meant it in a corporeal sense. But the sheen of the morning had worn thin – cheap metal polished too much and left fragile. As much as she needed him to be her home, he needed her to steady him.

He knew she was about to refuse – knew she was about to deny him with a quick quip that he’d play back in turn.

But she didn’t.

“Alright,” she said, almost blandly, “Come with me. Then we’ll take it to Sieglinde together.”

Kurt didn’t care about where they were, or that she’d got garlic sausage stew caked to the corners of her mouth. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He placed both hands on the table and leaned over and kissed the Legate of the Merchant Congregation square on the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've got an awful lot of chapters left for this story - I think I've told Kurt's tale to an end of sorts. I do still want to write one more after this, then one for his leaving De Sardet's side for the final battle and one of him finding her afterwards. Beyond that though, I think I'm largely done with this offering. :) 
> 
> Hopefully I can finish up at some point in the next few weeks and try my hand at something new <3 Hope you'll stick around.


	33. Chapter 33

“I don’t mean to keep collecting people,” the legate sighed as they walked from the little house together, “But you have to admit, Aphra’s good to have around…”

“I never said she wasn’t. I just think it’s funny that you can’t seem to go anywhere without acquiring another resident for the world’s smallest embassy…” She elbowed him at that.

“I didn’t think it would end up being an embassy. I just thought that it would be somewhere for me to live, with a spare room for you until I managed to seduce you.”

Kurt made a noise that was half laugh and half choke, and it made De Sardet throw her head back in a merry guffaw, “Oh, sweet Kurt – you’re so easily shocked.”

They had reached the steps at the foot of the palace now and De Sardet sighed as she looked up them.

“I’ll call by for you, when I’ve taken Sieglinde her prize,” Kurt tried to reassure her. She kissed his cheek, sighed heavily, and began to trudge upwards. He watched her go, his heart aching for her. She’d lost the Princess to the Malichor, and now she stood to lose her cousin too.

“Greenblood,” he yelled after her. She turned and looked down at him, “We’ll figure something out.”

She smiled, warm and grateful, but entirely disbelieving. They nodded at one another, and she continued the ascent.

*~*~*

“What would I want with a whopping great thing like that?” Sieglinde scoffed when Kurt dropped the ring on the table.

“I don’t know, do I? Saintere found us in a tavern and insisted I take it to you.”

“So you’ll listen to what some random noblewoman tells you but you don’t do as you’re told when I say you need to bed your royal duckling.”

Kurt was silent, and it didn’t escape Sieglinde.

“Ha! I bloody knew you would!” she paused for a second, then, “Feel better for that?”

“Oh shut up.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” They both tried to hide how much they were smiling.

There was a heavy pause in which Sieglinde pursed her lips, drew breath to talk and then stopped herself, her words seemingly caught at the tip of her tongue.

“Take the ring,” she said to Kurt. He frowned.

“Take it where?”

She groaned, exasperated, “To a bank, or to a merchant, or some shady bastard who can give you money for it - I don’t care. Point is, keep it – buy a little cottage or a trip back to the continent, or a tavern, or whatever it is you and your duckling plan on doing next.”

“You should sell it,” Kurt pressed, “You earned it.”

“People would ask questions. And…” she sighed, “I never had a brother. Not a real one. Best I got is you.”

“Yeah well,” he scuffed his boot against the floor in front of her desk, bashful, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Me too. Not least because I’ve a childhood of sibling rivalry to catch up on… But let me do this kindness for you. You’re family, and I can give you a nest egg for when you’re fathering royal spawn.”

Kurt groaned at that, “I don’t plan on fathering anything.”

She glared at him, her face fixed in an expression he’d never seen her wear before, “Kurt,” her tone was firm, but loving too, “Let me do this. And then shut up.”

*~*~*

Kurt deposited the gaudy ring with a bank on the square. He had considered selling it there and then, but Saintere’s husband’s ‘death’ was so very recent and Kurt wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t want anyone asking questions about its provenance.

He made his way to the palace with that same distant, light feeling he’d had after they’d walked from the house in San Matteus to the stew tavern. Nothing felt quite real.

Inside the building he paused, trying to ground himself before entering the audience chamber. Morange sat, perched on the chair meant for Constantin and Kurt wondered for just a moment, what he would have done during the coup if the woman he loved hadn’t loved the governor…

Kurt had never really liked Morange.

“Sir Kurt,” she said as he entered, “I understand congratulations are in order? That you’re some kind of… knight now?”

He shrugged, “Something like that. I’m still enough of a Coin Guard that I’ll do most things for a purse of gold… wearing a fancy title included.”

She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes, “You’re here to chaperone the legate home? Not that she needs it, I imagine…”

Kurt tried to keep his emotion from his face – it didn’t appear as though De Sardet had informed Morange of their … relationship. He shrugged again, “I go where I’m told. It’s not my job to think much about it.”

“You may as well take a seat,” she gestured to a bench at the side of the room, “De Sardet remains with her cousin. I often think it would have been a kindness to him to have died in the coup, you know…”

The comment sounded idle, but Kurt caught the weight of it. He said nothing, nor did he make for the bench. Morange seemed to take his silence as agreement though, and she continued, “The temptation is always to slip something into his drink… something to complete the process. The Malichor is so very brutal in the young – something about their virility seems to help it take them faster.”

She looked at her nails, plucking at one, idly, “He suffers dreadfully and his moods make sure we do too. His cousin is the only one who seems able to calm him. But of course, we can’t spare the legate to function as a glorified nurse maid now, can we?”

Again, Kurt said nothing.

There was a long, awkward pause before De Sardet emerged from Constantin’s personal chambers. Strands of her hair had worked loose from her braid and crowned her head in something of a halo, backlit by the fading light at the long windows which flanked the room.

“Kurt,” the relief in her voice was audible, but she seemed to read the flat expression he wore and adjusted her own to one of professional distance, “I was hoping you’d be here. I am more than ready to go home now.”

“Your Excellency,” he said with a nod of ascent, hoping that hearing her title coming from him would be something of a reassurance.

There was a huge commotion from behind Constantin’s door and De Sardet’s whole body slumped with exhaustion.

“No… “ she groaned, “I just put him to bed…”

The door crashed open and Constantin stumbled through in his night clothes. Kurt and Morange tried not to recoil from the look of him but neither was entirely successful. Only De Sardet was unmoved by his visage and made for him with her arms outstretched.

“Come now, Con, you must be tired… Surely it’s time to sleep?”

“Sweet Cousin, I swear to you that I am lucid. Tired, yes, but it’s me – it’s truly me. Not the phantom you’ve wasted your afternoon upon.”

She scanned his face and seemed to find confirmation there that he was telling the truth. It was only watching his former students now that Kurt noted the violin in the governor’s hands.

“I need you to promise me something, Sweet Cousin,” Constantin’s eyes weren’t frantic, but there was an urgency there – a plea, “I’ve been thinking about my possessions and-“

“You’ve already given me your mother’s ring,” she said, and showed him her hand, “And it is something I will treasure until I find you a cure, but-“

“You still see the Naut captain, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Take him my fiddle,” he pressed the instrument into the legate’s hands, “I’ve never heard anyone make music as beautifully as he does. He needs something better to play on.”

De Sardet set her chin, stubborn in a way she only ever was with Constantin, “No. I absolutely shan’t. For a start, this needs to be in a case before I even consider carrying it from this palace. Secondly, you’re going to be fine.”

“We both know that isn’t true. Please. Don’t patronise me like everyone else does.”

“I have promising leads – a scientist from the Bridge Alliance, and Siora’s people have-“

“Cousin.” It was another plea, but gentle, coaxing. Earnest. Kurt watched the way the legate’s shoulder’s sagged as she conceded silently.

“You’re not allowed to die, Constantin,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I have so much news I want to tell you – so many places I want to show you, and so much good we can do…”

“And I want all of that too… but… Right now, I need to know that my violin is going to be played by someone who will appreciate it.”

De Sardet clutched it to her chest and nodded.

“Do you remember that song…. The one you kept trying to learn on the harpsicord?”

“And failed spectacularly at? It was _Fiddlers Green_ , though Mother thought it was _The Admiral At The Dock_.”

“Sing it for me.” Constantin seemed to miss the glint in De Sardet’s eyes as she drew breath and began.

“The Admiral stood at the edge of the dock,  
One hand on his hip and one on his…. Cock-rel  
Just robbed from the nest  
by the woman beside him with great heaving… Breast-plate-“

Constantin pushed at her, fondly, though it left him breathless, “Not The Admiral! I want to hear Fiddler’s Green….”

“Then I shall bring Vasco here to play it for you – it’s a shanty, after all…”

“You, cousin. I have such memories of you singing it through the corridors constantly… you loved that song.”

She sighed and passed the violin to Kurt. He took the opportunity to hiss to her, "Get him a taster. Someone Morange likes."

De Sardet nodded, he face impassive, then she said, “I’ll sing it to you, Con. But only if I can put you back to bed.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I consent.”

The legate took the governor’s hand and clutched it so tight that his knuckles went white. And then, with a quavering note that was thin and heavy all at once, she began to sing. She had a plain voice, and - Kurt suspected - had it not been for the hours of failed music lessons, she would have had an abjectly terrible one. But the words were breathy and haunting, and the melody sounded like the ghosts of lullabies.

“Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper  
No more on the docks I’ll be seen  
Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates  
And I’ll see you some day in Fiddler’s Green

When you get on the docks and the long trip is through  
Ther’s pubs and ther’s clubs and ther’s lassies there too  
When the girls are all pretty and the beer it is free  
And ther’s bottles of rum growing from every tree”

*~*~*

When they reached the house again, De Sardet pushed the violin into Vasco’s baffled hands, then stomped upstairs to collapse face down on the bed, sobbing.

Kurt stayed downstairs.

“Play something,” he said to Vasco after a moment.

“Play what?”

“I don’t know – _The Admiral At The Dock_ or that thing you played on the ship when the wind died.”

Vasco cocked an eyebrow but plucked the fiddle strings, produced a tuning fork from his belt and proceeded to warm up. Then he drew the bow across to form a cord, opened his mouth in a perfect ‘o’ at how beautiful the instrument sounded, and began to play a dance. Not mournful exactly, but melancholy beneath the marching notes.

Kurt climbed the stairs and knelt before where De Sardet now sat on the bed. He bowed his head, like he’d seen suitors do before and took her hand. Covered in tears, he fingers were wet, but he held them anyway and kissed them regardless.

“Your Excellency… A dance?”

She stood, somewhat reluctantly and seemingly drawn up from the edge of the bed by the music. He placed his hands as she’d taught him and stepped awkwardly to and fro like they had in the ballroom. She managed a smeary smile, then lay her head on his shoulder. He held her as they moved, and she began to grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally going to write this, but I thought De Sardet and Constantin deserved their own goodbye of sorts. 
> 
> This is the song 'Fiddlers Green', which De Sardet sings. It's a real sea shanty about a sailor's idea of heaven - https://www.artofmanliness.com/sea-shanty-fiddlers-green/


	34. Chapter 34

She spat blood at the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The field was quiet for a moment and desperate, her eyes sought him.

He stepped over the corpse at his feet and crossed to her, lifting her chin in his hand and checking for wounds.

He betrayed her then. Better now, than at the end. Better now, when she’d understand.

“I’m going to stay with them, Greenblood.”

“Kurt?”

He thought of the way the legate had replaced her broken family with the people around her – how she had woven herself a new home from love of her companions. He remembered the sad pride in her voice every time she’d put Constantin to bed after his sickness had taken hold _because he had chosen her._ Kurt thought of what Sieglinde had said when she’d given him that fancy ring as a nest-egg – that he was her brother.

He took a deep breath, “They’re my kin.”

The legate looked at him, her gaze piercing his soul. Those hurt eyes flicked to Sieglinde, just for a moment, but De Sardet nodded, understanding. Then she whispered, “How will I do it, without you?”

“You’re just trying to make me say you were always my favourite student, aren’t you?” he tried to sound encouraging, teasing, but her face was mournful. He sighed, “Greenblood, you were always my brightest, my best. You’re an artist when you move with your sword – it’s a joy to watch. I’m… I’m a soldier. And an old one at that. I’ll slow you down. You’ll be watching my back and… you don’t need more work.”

Sieglinde saved him then, “Good to have you with us, Kurt. I’d say it’s like the ‘good old days’ but we both know there’s no such thing in the Guard…”

“There’s certainly not with _you_ around,” he teased, but patted her shoulder fondly, regardless.

There was a long pause – a plaintive stare between Kurt and the legate in which their silence tried to say all that was unsaid.

They shared a tentative smile, then heard a crash above them on the path.

“Enough. Greenblood, go.”

She nodded, “Good luck. And Kurt… don’t be a hero.”

He remembered that lesson well – the way she’d run at him time and time again regardless of how often she fell, never giving herself chance to rest before the next volley against his blade. He’d asked her why. Because she’d wanted to be heroic. He’d taught her not to – taught her how to fight smart, to win. That’s what she was telling him now – to be smart, to stay alive.

She was fidgeting as she pulled away from him – the way he’d come to know so well. She checked the boxes, tapped the tinctures at her belt. Finally, she made to advance up the mountain and-

Kurt felt himself choking. Watching her go was like being split in two. A wave of panic and pain washed over him like he’d never felt before. The realisation that now – here, in this place –he might be saying goodbye _permanently_ … It was more than his heart could bear. He strode after her.

She heard his footsteps, familiar enough now that she knew it was him and didn’t draw her weapon. They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity before he crossed to her, kissing her, wrapping his arms around her – as if by doing so he could somehow capture her, capture that moment.

They’d known one another for most of her lifetime, and the better half of his. It felt so unfair that they might be robbed of one another now, before they could build whatever future they decided upon together. He wanted to tell her of his bank box, of how much he’d liked Sieglinde’s suggestion of opening a tavern. He wanted to help her find her kin on the island, to learn all she could about the mark on her face.

But the words he found in the moment were plaintive, forlorn, “Is this the last time I’ll see you?”

He watched her face contort as her heart broke. She had no comfort for him, “I don’t know.”

She moved to kiss him now, and he realised what he needed to do. He held her shoulders as he had when he’d trained her, when he’d needed information to go in when she was tired. He held her at arm’s length and looked her square in the eye.

“Go, Greenblood,” he said and he pushed her away from him.

A calm seemed to settle on her. She nodded at him once.

And then she was gone.

He heard a yell behind him, Sieglinde screaming that they needed to hold the line. Kurt cracked his shoulders back, then ran for the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always found it really odd that your love interest leaves you to face Constantin alone. Especially Kurt, who's literally devoted his whole life to making sure you're safe. I wanted to give him a reason for that, and hopefully his friendship with Sieglinde is enough here. 
> 
> I think - accidentally - the theme that's coming across in these chapters is The Family We Make. I loved seeing that in the game - Constantin's easy acceptance of the fact that De Sardet was adopted. Like, he really didn't give a crap about being blood relatives, because he loved the legate. I only ever played as a woman, but from the videos I've seen, the is especially touching when De Sardet is a man. There are so few tender m/m friendships in games and I loved seeing it here. 
> 
> Anyways, I'll shut up now. Hope you enjoyed <3


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter - hope you enjoy.

_Kurt kicked Constantin’s foot. The boy’s eyes snapped open, clear and bright, and Kurt could tell he hadn’t been sleeping._

_He lay on his back at the side of the training yard, his skinny, clumsy cousin coiled in to his side. She’d clearly spent herself crying, and was now deeply unconscious._

_Constantin moved, slowly – reverently – away from her and stood, gesturing Kurt away from the sleeping figure. Kurt glanced back, checking that she was shaded from the beating sun by the manicured boughs of the vines which had been trained up the walls. Satisfied she would be shrouded in the shadows, he turned to the prince’s son._

_“What’s going on?”_

_“My father slapped her and called her a whore. She’s upset.”_

_Kurt fought with his features to keep the disbelief from his expression. It wasn’t that he couldn’t imagine the prince flying at someone in a fit of rage, but he struggled to reconcile that sort of reaction with the girl._

_“Thought your father liked her?”_

_“He adores her, which is why he was so put out. But it’s my fault.”_

_This, Kurt could believe._

_“You’d better tell it all from the start. And you can polish your sword and armour while you do.”_

_Constantin groaned at the instruction, but Kurt tossed a slightly oily rag at him and he began at his work. “She was sneaking me out of the apartments last night. I’d made plants with the Lady Aulier’s daughter. Mistress Aulier has been helping me with my studies in-“ he caught Kurt’s sceptical look and sighed, “Well, anyway. My sweet cousin had just closed the window after me when my father caught her. He saw me running across the lawn from the window and presumed that she’d been up to no good. So he slapped her, and called her a savage whore.”_

_“And she didn’t tell him it was you?”_

_“No… she said he’d have done far worse to me. She’s got a black eye though and won’t be able to attend a salon she was looking forward to.”_

_Kurt glanced back at the sleeping figure, “You don’t deserve her.”_

_“I agree,” Constantin followed Kurt’s gaze, “I’m not a religious person, but I rather think that if there ever was a deity, they’d be like her.”_

_Kurt felt his mouth contort involuntarily into a grimace, “I think you might be going a little far there.”_

_“Oh probably, but don’t you think the world would be better if she was in charge?”_

_Kurt shrugged. He didn’t often think about much beyond his next meal and fat coin purse._

_De Sardet stirred and Kurt smirked suddenly, “Well, if you’re keen on repaying her discretion, you can clean her armour and blade too.”_

*~*~*

Kurt kicked Constantin’s foot.

Dead.

Properly, unequivocally dead.

He lay on his back on the outcrop, his tall, angular cousin coiled in at his side. She’d clearly spent herself and was now deeply unconscious. Or worse.

Kurt held his breath. He crept forward, kneeling at her side.

He reached out to her, but stopped himself, hand trembling. If he touched her and she didn’t respond, what would he do?

In many ways, this moment of not knowing was better. In this moment of not knowing, she might still be alive.

Kurt inhaled deeply, trying to gather courage from deep inside his bones. He tried to pretend that this was just another battlefield, that this was just another potential body.

But he couldn’t.

He retracted his hand, staring at her.

He was unable to move.

He could hear people behind him, was dully aware of Sieglinde keeping the others back and giving him space. Petrus was arguing with her.

 _This is shock_ said a voice in the back of his head. His hands remembered the flask of malt at his hip and he down a long gulp of it, the fiery liquid burning down his gullet and scalding his heart back to life.

Slowly, he reached out again, gently moving her soft mess of hair from over her face. Almost like a magnet, her skin followed his fingers and she turned towards him. He made a noise which was almost a bark of relief, but he hardly noticed.

Her eyes flicked open and focussed on him slowly. Then she echoed his strange bark and scrambled up from where she’d lain, clinging to him as if she was drowning. He held her tight as the weight of what they’d done descended on them. Then they cried – relief for one another and grief for the fallen.

*~*~*

Sieglinde gave the order to move the bodies, and it was this which finally stirred De Sardet into action.

“He’s my kin,” she stated blandly to the soldiers who would move him, by way of explanation.

“Then he’s mine too,” Kurt replied.

Together, they carried Constantin down the mountain.

Together, they buried him in the woods.

Together, they set out into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt they deserved a happy ending. They've been through so much! 
> 
> This was my first ever attempt at a fanfiction. I've written original stuff for years, but I've never been brave enough to throw my hat into the ring with other peoples' characters. It's possibly the most fun I've ever had writing, though, and it's absolutely not going to be my last story here. I've got something planned for Dragon Age: Origins, and I want to tell a little about Princess De Sardet's past with Petrus (because wow... so much going on there!) 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll stuck around. <3   
> Thank you for reading and all the comments.<3 They mean SO VERY MUCH.   
> xx


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